If Beale Street Could Talk briefing
3 (out of 4)
Barry Jenkins wasted no time substantiating the overnight wunderkind reputation chiseled out by his Oscar-winning breakthrough Moonlight, which snagged the Best Picture award in the most memorable fashion conceivable. With an adapted screenplay Jenkins apparently penned on a European summer vacation at the same time as his Academy Award-winning script, If Beale Street Could Talk is a quick update on the director's fresh prominence — a nuanced drama and textured romance intertwined, threaded with relevant themes and sincere social commentary.
His early trademarks of point-of-view perspectives and fidgeting with the focus pay off strikingly well here, as Jenkins' identifies the central innocent love story for its remote delicacies while delivering melodrama with all the aplomb a great modern play might deserve. For every bit of hype behind Regina King’s performance — she’s practically destined beyond nominations to win for Best Supporting Actress — her turn is absolutely devastating. Her character’s convictions and superb dialogue have only remote relation to the raw emotion King funnels through the role.
Our leads are also great — Jenkins not only has a sharp eye for casting but an intuition as to how to draw the most vital vulnerability from his actors. Jenkins was quoted as saying shooting is his favorite part of directing because of the scope of possibilities each take provides. It may be an inevitable comedown following Moonlight’s transcendence, but if nothing else — that is, if reigniting the words of James Baldwin for cinematic purposes doesn't do anything for you — the effectiveness drawn from KiKi Layne and Stephan James leaves Beale Street worth an observant stroll.
Barry Jenkins wasted no time substantiating the overnight wunderkind reputation chiseled out by his Oscar-winning breakthrough Moonlight, which snagged the Best Picture award in the most memorable fashion conceivable. With an adapted screenplay Jenkins apparently penned on a European summer vacation at the same time as his Academy Award-winning script, If Beale Street Could Talk is a quick update on the director's fresh prominence — a nuanced drama and textured romance intertwined, threaded with relevant themes and sincere social commentary.
His early trademarks of point-of-view perspectives and fidgeting with the focus pay off strikingly well here, as Jenkins' identifies the central innocent love story for its remote delicacies while delivering melodrama with all the aplomb a great modern play might deserve. For every bit of hype behind Regina King’s performance — she’s practically destined beyond nominations to win for Best Supporting Actress — her turn is absolutely devastating. Her character’s convictions and superb dialogue have only remote relation to the raw emotion King funnels through the role.
Our leads are also great — Jenkins not only has a sharp eye for casting but an intuition as to how to draw the most vital vulnerability from his actors. Jenkins was quoted as saying shooting is his favorite part of directing because of the scope of possibilities each take provides. It may be an inevitable comedown following Moonlight’s transcendence, but if nothing else — that is, if reigniting the words of James Baldwin for cinematic purposes doesn't do anything for you — the effectiveness drawn from KiKi Layne and Stephan James leaves Beale Street worth an observant stroll.
Aquaman briefing
3 (out of 4)
The fruits of the superhero genre are conceived for a general audience even if they are often subliminally designed for children and overweight 40-year-old men. As Hollywood's longtime fat calf, the only thing left to explore in superheroism once the formulas and subversions have been exhausted is a few eccentric characters (why I've always been fond of those misfits called X-Men), unexplored settings and formal experimentation. Aquaman has everything it needs plus its own variety of deliriously campy pleasures.
I have to come out of the gate in defense because saying you care for a new DC movie that isn't Wonder Woman leads people to believe you are a contrarian. Aquaman is one of the best, if not the best, the DCEU has yet to offer. As the first film since Justice League made no impact on the world of comic book cinema one year ago, Aquaman is a spiritual rebirth for DC and a new page in Warner Brothers' self-destructive saga. It's a refreshing tonic rinsing out everything so dull and putrid about earlier entries.
Aquaman's story is anything but complicated yet beneath the surface are fathoms of context to unravel. It’s no secret the DCEU has floundered one release after another — Man of Steel was promising before quickly becoming excruciating and same goes for BvS, credit to Snyder’s ambitions misguided as they may have been. Suicide Squad and Justice League are so utterly flavorless they can barely be classified as films considering the widely reported studio meddling. Wonder Woman, imperfect as it is, became the obvious exception to the rule two summers past.
Aquaman doesn’t reinvent the wheel — there are no challenging narrative choices like Nolan’s Bat-trilogy or in Infinity War earlier this year. James Wan — the man behind Insidious, The Conjuring and the most acclaimed of the Fast & Furious series (number 7 to be exact) — has the touch of a pop craftsman and you can register his audacious approach to Aquaman from head to fin. Only a few years ago this movie would have been an impossible conception — Wan's blockbuster works with a boilerplate origin story that would have felt familiar 20 years ago and in spite of this Aquaman overwhelmingly prevails as pure spectacle.
What can I say? The film is good clean fun — it applies epic scope to conventional adventure plotting and archetypal characters including the macho reluctant hero and the capable, incredibly sexualized heroine. It all feels kind of classic in its own fantastic if farcical fashion, though it's easy to see the clichés too. For me Wan's unmistakable vision is so kinetically gratifying even the clunkiest lines are forgivable — altogether he keeps the mood just serious enough to care about and just goofy enough to enjoy intensely. Aquaman lets you bask in copious entertainment right down to the drumming octopus in spite of every perceived preceding limitation. This kind of preposterous extravaganza comes only so often — there's a satisfaction in seeing something so sensational be taken at face value, especially when the visual realization has been rigorously storyboarded.
The humor is there but unlike Marvel movies Aquaman doesn't break from established drama to wink at the audience about the whole affair, tempting as that might have been. With loads of CG scenery to chew, the fairly talented and inarguably well-cast performers hold our attention. Jason Momoa's interpretation of an undersea outlaw and Amber Heard's entirely appropriate role as a merwoman princess play to their respectively moderate strengths. Patrick Wilson and Willem Dafoe are far above this material but that doesn’t stop them from giving their all to such blatant schlock. The subaquatic monologuing and mythology is its own reward if you have an open mind. Exposition isn’t this film's strong suit but the Atlantean mythos is somehow much more interesting than that of Wakanda, Themyscira or Asgard.
What Aquaman really does is revert the superhero recipe back to the dumb escapist fare it was before The Dark Knight dubiously encouraged people to expect topicality and sophistication from their capeflicks. The original two Spider-Man films are among the best the genre has ever spawned but they are absurd to a tee whilst achieving the dynamic essence of a comic book. All in all I can't explain such vivid revelry in viewing Aquaman other than to say it has all the kooky creativity of an old-fashioned cult classic burnished with expensive contemporary cosmetics.
The fruits of the superhero genre are conceived for a general audience even if they are often subliminally designed for children and overweight 40-year-old men. As Hollywood's longtime fat calf, the only thing left to explore in superheroism once the formulas and subversions have been exhausted is a few eccentric characters (why I've always been fond of those misfits called X-Men), unexplored settings and formal experimentation. Aquaman has everything it needs plus its own variety of deliriously campy pleasures.
I have to come out of the gate in defense because saying you care for a new DC movie that isn't Wonder Woman leads people to believe you are a contrarian. Aquaman is one of the best, if not the best, the DCEU has yet to offer. As the first film since Justice League made no impact on the world of comic book cinema one year ago, Aquaman is a spiritual rebirth for DC and a new page in Warner Brothers' self-destructive saga. It's a refreshing tonic rinsing out everything so dull and putrid about earlier entries.
Aquaman's story is anything but complicated yet beneath the surface are fathoms of context to unravel. It’s no secret the DCEU has floundered one release after another — Man of Steel was promising before quickly becoming excruciating and same goes for BvS, credit to Snyder’s ambitions misguided as they may have been. Suicide Squad and Justice League are so utterly flavorless they can barely be classified as films considering the widely reported studio meddling. Wonder Woman, imperfect as it is, became the obvious exception to the rule two summers past.
Aquaman doesn’t reinvent the wheel — there are no challenging narrative choices like Nolan’s Bat-trilogy or in Infinity War earlier this year. James Wan — the man behind Insidious, The Conjuring and the most acclaimed of the Fast & Furious series (number 7 to be exact) — has the touch of a pop craftsman and you can register his audacious approach to Aquaman from head to fin. Only a few years ago this movie would have been an impossible conception — Wan's blockbuster works with a boilerplate origin story that would have felt familiar 20 years ago and in spite of this Aquaman overwhelmingly prevails as pure spectacle.
What can I say? The film is good clean fun — it applies epic scope to conventional adventure plotting and archetypal characters including the macho reluctant hero and the capable, incredibly sexualized heroine. It all feels kind of classic in its own fantastic if farcical fashion, though it's easy to see the clichés too. For me Wan's unmistakable vision is so kinetically gratifying even the clunkiest lines are forgivable — altogether he keeps the mood just serious enough to care about and just goofy enough to enjoy intensely. Aquaman lets you bask in copious entertainment right down to the drumming octopus in spite of every perceived preceding limitation. This kind of preposterous extravaganza comes only so often — there's a satisfaction in seeing something so sensational be taken at face value, especially when the visual realization has been rigorously storyboarded.
The humor is there but unlike Marvel movies Aquaman doesn't break from established drama to wink at the audience about the whole affair, tempting as that might have been. With loads of CG scenery to chew, the fairly talented and inarguably well-cast performers hold our attention. Jason Momoa's interpretation of an undersea outlaw and Amber Heard's entirely appropriate role as a merwoman princess play to their respectively moderate strengths. Patrick Wilson and Willem Dafoe are far above this material but that doesn’t stop them from giving their all to such blatant schlock. The subaquatic monologuing and mythology is its own reward if you have an open mind. Exposition isn’t this film's strong suit but the Atlantean mythos is somehow much more interesting than that of Wakanda, Themyscira or Asgard.
What Aquaman really does is revert the superhero recipe back to the dumb escapist fare it was before The Dark Knight dubiously encouraged people to expect topicality and sophistication from their capeflicks. The original two Spider-Man films are among the best the genre has ever spawned but they are absurd to a tee whilst achieving the dynamic essence of a comic book. All in all I can't explain such vivid revelry in viewing Aquaman other than to say it has all the kooky creativity of an old-fashioned cult classic burnished with expensive contemporary cosmetics.
The Favourite briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
Greek director Yorgos Lanthimos is able to complete multiple objectives concurrently with The Favourite. He composes a flagrant, caustically comic farce of the regal period piece dramas usually magnetizing Academy Awards attention while sneakily securing the same buzz, conveying his own brutally realistic and reasonably tragic window to the past by stringently obeying certain historical accuracies and outright ignoring a few others.
Lanthimos is among the most innovative contemporary filmmakers. Like Paul Thomas Anderson, he emulates Stanley Kubrick’s approaches to direction while circumnavigating outright imitation. The genre whoredom, emotional opaqueness, impeccably detailed sets and costumes — not to mention the splendid camera strokes of superimpositions, symmetrical framing, tracking movements — all direct back to Kubrick's fundamental influence. But Lanthimos' assortment of fastidious and uncompromising auteur tendencies allows him to color in his own mysteriously idiosyncratic characteristics.
After the satirical dystopian rom-com The Lobster and the near-horror-comedy framing of his mythologically inspired supernatural thriller The Killing of a Sacred Deer, the director’s third English feature continues to advance his absurd, surreal dexterity in handling the most confused, disgusting and uncanny aspects of human nature. The tonal acrobatics Lanthimos is able to pull off in The Favourite are akin to the counterintuitive strangeness of The Lobster and his vexing, jet-black sense of humor in Dogtooth. In addition to the historical posturing Lanthimos draws upon classic elements of screwball and comedy of manners, wraps them in subtle irony and psychological torment and seals it all in a dazzlingly fish-eyed bundle.
By never losing the pinch of woe within its provocative hilarity, the one-up(wo)manship between the delicious lead characters lends The Favourite much of its grandeur. Lanthimos' efforts would be moot if not for evenly exquisite actors: Rachel Weisz, Emma Stone, Olivia Colman and Nicholas Hoult are perfectly selected for their parts and do not hesitate to live up to them.
The fact that Lanthimos can both destroy and progress the face of the film's genre is a testament to his own indisputable talents and imposing vision. The cinematography, period flourishes, performances, scripting and editing are all of a harmonious sublimity. The deplorable crooning and craning for attention is just as vile as all the vomit — palpable, deliberate repulsion stains the ornate surface of The Favourite. With Lanthimos imparting tantalizingly modern cinematic formality, this is baroque filmmaking at its finest.
Greek director Yorgos Lanthimos is able to complete multiple objectives concurrently with The Favourite. He composes a flagrant, caustically comic farce of the regal period piece dramas usually magnetizing Academy Awards attention while sneakily securing the same buzz, conveying his own brutally realistic and reasonably tragic window to the past by stringently obeying certain historical accuracies and outright ignoring a few others.
Lanthimos is among the most innovative contemporary filmmakers. Like Paul Thomas Anderson, he emulates Stanley Kubrick’s approaches to direction while circumnavigating outright imitation. The genre whoredom, emotional opaqueness, impeccably detailed sets and costumes — not to mention the splendid camera strokes of superimpositions, symmetrical framing, tracking movements — all direct back to Kubrick's fundamental influence. But Lanthimos' assortment of fastidious and uncompromising auteur tendencies allows him to color in his own mysteriously idiosyncratic characteristics.
After the satirical dystopian rom-com The Lobster and the near-horror-comedy framing of his mythologically inspired supernatural thriller The Killing of a Sacred Deer, the director’s third English feature continues to advance his absurd, surreal dexterity in handling the most confused, disgusting and uncanny aspects of human nature. The tonal acrobatics Lanthimos is able to pull off in The Favourite are akin to the counterintuitive strangeness of The Lobster and his vexing, jet-black sense of humor in Dogtooth. In addition to the historical posturing Lanthimos draws upon classic elements of screwball and comedy of manners, wraps them in subtle irony and psychological torment and seals it all in a dazzlingly fish-eyed bundle.
By never losing the pinch of woe within its provocative hilarity, the one-up(wo)manship between the delicious lead characters lends The Favourite much of its grandeur. Lanthimos' efforts would be moot if not for evenly exquisite actors: Rachel Weisz, Emma Stone, Olivia Colman and Nicholas Hoult are perfectly selected for their parts and do not hesitate to live up to them.
The fact that Lanthimos can both destroy and progress the face of the film's genre is a testament to his own indisputable talents and imposing vision. The cinematography, period flourishes, performances, scripting and editing are all of a harmonious sublimity. The deplorable crooning and craning for attention is just as vile as all the vomit — palpable, deliberate repulsion stains the ornate surface of The Favourite. With Lanthimos imparting tantalizingly modern cinematic formality, this is baroque filmmaking at its finest.
Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
No solitary superhero, not even Batman, has such a glut in film media. I wasn't anticipating Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse for this reason alone until I found out Phil Lord, half of the duo behind Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs and the Jump Street films, was a screenwriter.
It was enough to get me to pay for a Sony animated movie — after Spider-Man: Homecoming, I was over the idea of Spider-Men that aren't Tobey Maguire and wasn’t too keen on animated supers not directed by Brad Bird. Needless to say Into the Spider-Verse obliterated my mild expectations and is unexpectedly exemplar of the genre’s potentialities. It's a triumph of stellar visual conception, acutely funny scripting, inspired voice work, emotionally staked plotting and perhaps the weirdest superhero ensemble the silver screen has yet seen.
Using sci-fi gobbledygook to bridge realities and juxtapose great characters and voices, Spider-Verse's cup runneth over in novelty and fun. John Mulaney as Peter Porker, Nicolas Cage as Noir Spider-Man, Hailee Steinfeld as Gwen Stacy, Jake Johnson as an aged Peter, Kimiko Penn as Peni Parker and of course Shameik Moore as protagonist Miles Morales all fit and bring their bizarre characters to a strangely sure-footed state of relatability.
Into the Spider-Verse is perpetually entertaining, complementing purposeful, passionate, appropriately invested scripting with pristine movements realizing the actual consistency of a comic book. The animation grain bristles with a near-kaleidoscopic design — the speckled film surface perfectly blends the kinetics of stop-motion movement with the texture of polished 3D animation. Even the end credits are wondrous to behold — the entire inspired visual design coalesces with seamless fluidity, translating the simple wonder of a drawing coming to life.
This is a stuffed Spider-Verse with many in-jokes for geeks and enough unregulated imagination to span an entire phase of the MCU. The bar has been raised for July's Spider-Man: Far from Home when it debuts with both Endgame and Captain Marvel still in multiplexes. The next Spidey will be three times as expensive as Into the Spider-Verse but Sony's smartest play in years will have been easily the best thing to originate from Stan Lee’s most popular creation since Spider-Man 2 changed the game 15 years ago.
No solitary superhero, not even Batman, has such a glut in film media. I wasn't anticipating Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse for this reason alone until I found out Phil Lord, half of the duo behind Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs and the Jump Street films, was a screenwriter.
It was enough to get me to pay for a Sony animated movie — after Spider-Man: Homecoming, I was over the idea of Spider-Men that aren't Tobey Maguire and wasn’t too keen on animated supers not directed by Brad Bird. Needless to say Into the Spider-Verse obliterated my mild expectations and is unexpectedly exemplar of the genre’s potentialities. It's a triumph of stellar visual conception, acutely funny scripting, inspired voice work, emotionally staked plotting and perhaps the weirdest superhero ensemble the silver screen has yet seen.
Using sci-fi gobbledygook to bridge realities and juxtapose great characters and voices, Spider-Verse's cup runneth over in novelty and fun. John Mulaney as Peter Porker, Nicolas Cage as Noir Spider-Man, Hailee Steinfeld as Gwen Stacy, Jake Johnson as an aged Peter, Kimiko Penn as Peni Parker and of course Shameik Moore as protagonist Miles Morales all fit and bring their bizarre characters to a strangely sure-footed state of relatability.
Into the Spider-Verse is perpetually entertaining, complementing purposeful, passionate, appropriately invested scripting with pristine movements realizing the actual consistency of a comic book. The animation grain bristles with a near-kaleidoscopic design — the speckled film surface perfectly blends the kinetics of stop-motion movement with the texture of polished 3D animation. Even the end credits are wondrous to behold — the entire inspired visual design coalesces with seamless fluidity, translating the simple wonder of a drawing coming to life.
This is a stuffed Spider-Verse with many in-jokes for geeks and enough unregulated imagination to span an entire phase of the MCU. The bar has been raised for July's Spider-Man: Far from Home when it debuts with both Endgame and Captain Marvel still in multiplexes. The next Spidey will be three times as expensive as Into the Spider-Verse but Sony's smartest play in years will have been easily the best thing to originate from Stan Lee’s most popular creation since Spider-Man 2 changed the game 15 years ago.
Roma briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
Alfonso Cuarón has embraced the unencumbered creative freedom afforded him since he transformed the Harry Potter series from a line of kid flicks to the benchmark for mainstream fantasy in a post-LOTR world. His follow-up, 2006's Children of Men, is one the most mesmerizingly photographed movies of the 21st century and in company with the best films of our time too. He then took seven years to churn out Gravity — in every visual respect the work of a technical prodigy but worth significantly less in writing and performance.
Still, Cuarón has broken many barriers in the past and was bound to return to an antithetically personal playing field with more privilege and prowess. The Mexican filmmaker hasn’t fashioned a film in his own language or country since the emphatically erotic Y tu Mama También, so it was only a matter of time before a welcome readjustment to a more practical artistic framework. With Roma Cuarón produces a poignantly quotidian portrait working both as a sincere slice of his own subjectivity and a harrowing new installation in the director’s diverse and dominating filmography.
Far from exploding satellites, the restrictively domestic struggles of a modest housekeeper are showcased with uncommon clarity as Cuarón refurbishes his love of long-take experimentation. The 3D wizardry and handheld authenticity are substituted for swiveling pans informally illustrating action through 360 degrees of investigated space. The same simple camera motions capture tedious chores as bluntly as jolting violence and heinous revelations. The extended single-shots are all justified in measured bouts of beauty. If you think the pivotal birth scene in Children of Men was intense, it has nothing on the analogous delivery sequence in Roma — like Children, some of Roma's most traumatic moments are nonetheless awe-inspiring.
Cuarón comfortably elevates the definition of a Netflix original with a particularly great film reputable enough to also earn a fairly wide theatrical release, setting a paramount precedent. The mode of viewing notwithstanding, Roma is marvelous in thought and sensation, sweepingly portrayed in monochromatic glory and humbly humanized by newcomer Yalitza Aparicio.
Alfonso Cuarón has embraced the unencumbered creative freedom afforded him since he transformed the Harry Potter series from a line of kid flicks to the benchmark for mainstream fantasy in a post-LOTR world. His follow-up, 2006's Children of Men, is one the most mesmerizingly photographed movies of the 21st century and in company with the best films of our time too. He then took seven years to churn out Gravity — in every visual respect the work of a technical prodigy but worth significantly less in writing and performance.
Still, Cuarón has broken many barriers in the past and was bound to return to an antithetically personal playing field with more privilege and prowess. The Mexican filmmaker hasn’t fashioned a film in his own language or country since the emphatically erotic Y tu Mama También, so it was only a matter of time before a welcome readjustment to a more practical artistic framework. With Roma Cuarón produces a poignantly quotidian portrait working both as a sincere slice of his own subjectivity and a harrowing new installation in the director’s diverse and dominating filmography.
Far from exploding satellites, the restrictively domestic struggles of a modest housekeeper are showcased with uncommon clarity as Cuarón refurbishes his love of long-take experimentation. The 3D wizardry and handheld authenticity are substituted for swiveling pans informally illustrating action through 360 degrees of investigated space. The same simple camera motions capture tedious chores as bluntly as jolting violence and heinous revelations. The extended single-shots are all justified in measured bouts of beauty. If you think the pivotal birth scene in Children of Men was intense, it has nothing on the analogous delivery sequence in Roma — like Children, some of Roma's most traumatic moments are nonetheless awe-inspiring.
Cuarón comfortably elevates the definition of a Netflix original with a particularly great film reputable enough to also earn a fairly wide theatrical release, setting a paramount precedent. The mode of viewing notwithstanding, Roma is marvelous in thought and sensation, sweepingly portrayed in monochromatic glory and humbly humanized by newcomer Yalitza Aparicio.
Mortal Engines briefing
2 (out of 4)
YA novel adaptations had their time in the sun but at this point trying to cash in on the faded fad is embarrassing. The Hunger Games briefly took residence in the void left by Harry Potter but since both disappointing Part's of the Mockingjay have long flown, the flashes in the pan since (your Divergent's, your Maze Runner's) have long since fizzled. From afar, Mortal Engines posited itself to revivify a dying trend of teen fantasies, but the lack of pulse on arrival is more like the final nail in the coffin.
Alas, even with the screenwriting trio for The Lord of the Rings, Mortal Engines spins familiar tales as robotic as those enormous mechanized wheels. As always with the latest universe to develop, the hook (cities on the go, yippee) and the introduction to a newish world gets you involved and thinking, but the adventure in wait requires vested interest in stock characters. Lamentably, for all its intriguing trappings and borderline blockbuster commercial setup, audiences have barely taken the effort to shrug — it's the flop of 2018 and Universal is expected to lose as much money as they gambled.
The script by Peter Jackson — as well as his wife Fran Walsh and collaborator Philippa Boyens — is far too truncated and whittled down to bare essentials to leave room for character development and an organic progression of stakes. Our key heroes and villains are so damn one-dimensional and every side character contributes little beyond overexplanatory exposition. It's no great sign that director and Jackson's right hand man Christian Rivers has no real filmmaking voice overpowering the belabored aesthetics and visual effects, neat as they often are. Obviously there’s not a minimum nine hours and three movies to dwell upon a gaggle of personalities as with this team's last two trilogies, but Mortal Engines is exclusively worldbuilding and bustling plot and suffers enormously as such.
But 100 million dollars was never spent so efficiently. On every visual front, from set construction to costume design to CG 'splosions, Mortal Engines at least has the veneer of epic grandiosity. The production design is full of genuine craft but it’s paced out as if a five-hour movie had every other page ripped from its screenplay. There are more than enough details of the dystopian cosplay wonderland to continually pique one's curiosity but the film plateaus halfway through and settles for predictable payoffs and dimensionless, exhausting conclusions after the tour is over. Mortal Engines fundamentally fails to escape a sense of mediocrity slowly enveloping the film around Act Two before taking it over completely by the routine special effects smackdown.
Clearly the 2001 novel has imagination to spare in terms of contemporary youth fiction. The futuristic steampunk fantasy universe inspired Jackson and, especially just from the first and best scene, you can see the cinematic experience he dreamt of imparting. Too bad this film's possible moment for greatness and recognition expired ages ago.
YA novel adaptations had their time in the sun but at this point trying to cash in on the faded fad is embarrassing. The Hunger Games briefly took residence in the void left by Harry Potter but since both disappointing Part's of the Mockingjay have long flown, the flashes in the pan since (your Divergent's, your Maze Runner's) have long since fizzled. From afar, Mortal Engines posited itself to revivify a dying trend of teen fantasies, but the lack of pulse on arrival is more like the final nail in the coffin.
Alas, even with the screenwriting trio for The Lord of the Rings, Mortal Engines spins familiar tales as robotic as those enormous mechanized wheels. As always with the latest universe to develop, the hook (cities on the go, yippee) and the introduction to a newish world gets you involved and thinking, but the adventure in wait requires vested interest in stock characters. Lamentably, for all its intriguing trappings and borderline blockbuster commercial setup, audiences have barely taken the effort to shrug — it's the flop of 2018 and Universal is expected to lose as much money as they gambled.
The script by Peter Jackson — as well as his wife Fran Walsh and collaborator Philippa Boyens — is far too truncated and whittled down to bare essentials to leave room for character development and an organic progression of stakes. Our key heroes and villains are so damn one-dimensional and every side character contributes little beyond overexplanatory exposition. It's no great sign that director and Jackson's right hand man Christian Rivers has no real filmmaking voice overpowering the belabored aesthetics and visual effects, neat as they often are. Obviously there’s not a minimum nine hours and three movies to dwell upon a gaggle of personalities as with this team's last two trilogies, but Mortal Engines is exclusively worldbuilding and bustling plot and suffers enormously as such.
But 100 million dollars was never spent so efficiently. On every visual front, from set construction to costume design to CG 'splosions, Mortal Engines at least has the veneer of epic grandiosity. The production design is full of genuine craft but it’s paced out as if a five-hour movie had every other page ripped from its screenplay. There are more than enough details of the dystopian cosplay wonderland to continually pique one's curiosity but the film plateaus halfway through and settles for predictable payoffs and dimensionless, exhausting conclusions after the tour is over. Mortal Engines fundamentally fails to escape a sense of mediocrity slowly enveloping the film around Act Two before taking it over completely by the routine special effects smackdown.
Clearly the 2001 novel has imagination to spare in terms of contemporary youth fiction. The futuristic steampunk fantasy universe inspired Jackson and, especially just from the first and best scene, you can see the cinematic experience he dreamt of imparting. Too bad this film's possible moment for greatness and recognition expired ages ago.
Green Book briefing
3 (out of 4)
The Farrelly brothers can be most affectionately labeled proto-Apatow but Green Book is far removed from their aged breed of humor. The comedy twosome grew more irrelevant with time but Peter — breaking away from Bobby (not the dumber, just the unluckier of the pair) — rejuvenated the merit of the Farrelly name overnight with Green Book, a film long donned with Oscar cachet since it received the People's Choice Award at TIFF.
Removed from a contextual acquaintance with Dumb and Dumber, There’s Something About Mary or Me, Myself & Irene — not to mention ignoring the lack of candor in its depiction of some kind of historical truth — Peter Farrelly's Green Book comes across as an effortlessly comic road trip movie embroiled with a few worthwhile sentiments and some impressive performances. The average viewer, cynicism not entirely deep-seated, will likely find the film's structure and themes timeless, translating soiled clichés into tender holiday escapism.
Still, between Don Shirley's nephew speaking out in sharp protest to the film's existence and Nick Vallelonga's own partiality in penning the script, the entire agenda of this movie will have people choosing sides in these unequivocally divisive times, especially vying over what qualifies as tact in regards to race relations. The younger Shirley resents the son of Viggo Mortensen's character Lip Vallelonga for going ahead with the film and, without his input that was indeed asked for, created what young Shirley believes to be a total fabrication. That's sure to be irksome, particularly with that "true friendship" part of the tagline. According to his kin, Shirley never considered Vallelonga a buddy — therefore the film has no merit apparently, despite Farrelly's script purposely showcasing him through a gradually more empathetic eye and the respect with which Mahershala Ali plays Shirley.
All I'm saying is why complain later when you had the chance to improve the inevitable beforehand? And how often do we actually believe supposed true stories in film play out exactly as they occurred? Green Book isn't Zodiac, and as painstaking as David Fincher's great film is there are always liberties taken for the sake of cinematic storytelling. Maybe Shirley really despised Vallelonga — still the road trip happened and considerable attention is paid to Shirley's undeniable virtuosity.
Following the sad, shameful hit and miss hilarity of Dumb and Dumber and the vivid screwball romance of Mary, Green Book is a natural result of slyly tender maturity eventually outweighing the crude humor. In writing alone Farrelly's film far exceeds any former expectations but the performances are what seals Green Book as spellbinding even at its most treacly. Ali is a recent Oscar winner, all but confirmed to become a two-timer and Mortensen is sadly playing fourth whistle to Bradley Cooper, Christian Bale and finally Rami Malek. Their caricatures become surprisingly real by the hallmark conclusion and the performers each deserve their due praise.
It may fit the blueprint of today's average Oscar bait, but damn if Green Book doesn’t strike you like it's supposed to. Its design is to please the mild temperaments of educated liberals but the movie’s so effortlessly classic (more Rain Man than Driving Miss Daisy if we're comparing BP winners) its glaring faults are worth forgiving. Truthfulness and triteness rest but a few, ham-filled degrees apart, so although superficially appearing to be a product of the latter category, Peter possesses the uncommon knack to see past today's politics and arrive at a veracious destination free of the acrimony associated with his past work or any agendas of another us v. them viewpoint in today's political atmosphere.
The Farrelly brothers can be most affectionately labeled proto-Apatow but Green Book is far removed from their aged breed of humor. The comedy twosome grew more irrelevant with time but Peter — breaking away from Bobby (not the dumber, just the unluckier of the pair) — rejuvenated the merit of the Farrelly name overnight with Green Book, a film long donned with Oscar cachet since it received the People's Choice Award at TIFF.
Removed from a contextual acquaintance with Dumb and Dumber, There’s Something About Mary or Me, Myself & Irene — not to mention ignoring the lack of candor in its depiction of some kind of historical truth — Peter Farrelly's Green Book comes across as an effortlessly comic road trip movie embroiled with a few worthwhile sentiments and some impressive performances. The average viewer, cynicism not entirely deep-seated, will likely find the film's structure and themes timeless, translating soiled clichés into tender holiday escapism.
Still, between Don Shirley's nephew speaking out in sharp protest to the film's existence and Nick Vallelonga's own partiality in penning the script, the entire agenda of this movie will have people choosing sides in these unequivocally divisive times, especially vying over what qualifies as tact in regards to race relations. The younger Shirley resents the son of Viggo Mortensen's character Lip Vallelonga for going ahead with the film and, without his input that was indeed asked for, created what young Shirley believes to be a total fabrication. That's sure to be irksome, particularly with that "true friendship" part of the tagline. According to his kin, Shirley never considered Vallelonga a buddy — therefore the film has no merit apparently, despite Farrelly's script purposely showcasing him through a gradually more empathetic eye and the respect with which Mahershala Ali plays Shirley.
All I'm saying is why complain later when you had the chance to improve the inevitable beforehand? And how often do we actually believe supposed true stories in film play out exactly as they occurred? Green Book isn't Zodiac, and as painstaking as David Fincher's great film is there are always liberties taken for the sake of cinematic storytelling. Maybe Shirley really despised Vallelonga — still the road trip happened and considerable attention is paid to Shirley's undeniable virtuosity.
Following the sad, shameful hit and miss hilarity of Dumb and Dumber and the vivid screwball romance of Mary, Green Book is a natural result of slyly tender maturity eventually outweighing the crude humor. In writing alone Farrelly's film far exceeds any former expectations but the performances are what seals Green Book as spellbinding even at its most treacly. Ali is a recent Oscar winner, all but confirmed to become a two-timer and Mortensen is sadly playing fourth whistle to Bradley Cooper, Christian Bale and finally Rami Malek. Their caricatures become surprisingly real by the hallmark conclusion and the performers each deserve their due praise.
It may fit the blueprint of today's average Oscar bait, but damn if Green Book doesn’t strike you like it's supposed to. Its design is to please the mild temperaments of educated liberals but the movie’s so effortlessly classic (more Rain Man than Driving Miss Daisy if we're comparing BP winners) its glaring faults are worth forgiving. Truthfulness and triteness rest but a few, ham-filled degrees apart, so although superficially appearing to be a product of the latter category, Peter possesses the uncommon knack to see past today's politics and arrive at a veracious destination free of the acrimony associated with his past work or any agendas of another us v. them viewpoint in today's political atmosphere.
The Ballad of Buster Scruggs briefing
3 (out of 4)
Following less than fervent reception this decade for the folk tragedy of Inside Llewyn Davis (which nonetheless rests alongside their best to date) and the Hollywood skewering in Hail! Caesar, America's real dynamic duo escape to Netflix to experiment with film anthology and assist in altering the cinematic landscape of the most popular streaming service. Alfonso Cuarón's Roma is the equally distinguished flip side of this high-profile one-two punch.
The brothers have tried their hands at Westerns several times, whether in neo-noirs more representative of their compositions like the pair's debut Blood Simple and their magnum opus No Country For Old Men, or their recent remake of True Grit — yet Buster Scruggs is most similar to the saturated pilgrimage of O Brother Where Art Thou? Similar to spinning country tales out of The Odyssey, Ballad rattles off a number of different tunes in the tumbleweed tradition — some straight, some strange, all Coen. Though the quality and conviction of the film relies on the oscillating tone and variety of ambition dispersed throughout the six short stories, Buster Scruggs is a savory encapsulation of everything else they've ever wished they could do with the dilapidated genre. Stagecoaches, gunslingers and wanted posters — I’d accuse them of simple deconstruction but the performances are too terrific, the scenery and production is too beautiful and the writing is too wily and pointed.
After the most parodic sketch for our titular character serves as the hilarious musical opener, the film takes the turn for the tragic, ironic and quietly existentialist. The fourth segment "All Gold Canyon" with Tom Waits as a guileless prospector in search of the shiny stuff, as well as courtship on the wagon trail in the highlight segment thereafter "The Girl Who Got Rattled," feel like miniature classics alongside many a Coen film. Every portion has a full purpose.
The Ballad of Buster Scruggs is relatively insignificant compared to your average Coen joint given its release platform and episodic structure. Still, despite themes and tricks which have served them all but flawlessly the past three decades, this album of a film is just the latest proof that cinema's best bros will never be done catching you off guard with a poetic swoop of melancholy or a proper punch of mirthfulness.
Following less than fervent reception this decade for the folk tragedy of Inside Llewyn Davis (which nonetheless rests alongside their best to date) and the Hollywood skewering in Hail! Caesar, America's real dynamic duo escape to Netflix to experiment with film anthology and assist in altering the cinematic landscape of the most popular streaming service. Alfonso Cuarón's Roma is the equally distinguished flip side of this high-profile one-two punch.
The brothers have tried their hands at Westerns several times, whether in neo-noirs more representative of their compositions like the pair's debut Blood Simple and their magnum opus No Country For Old Men, or their recent remake of True Grit — yet Buster Scruggs is most similar to the saturated pilgrimage of O Brother Where Art Thou? Similar to spinning country tales out of The Odyssey, Ballad rattles off a number of different tunes in the tumbleweed tradition — some straight, some strange, all Coen. Though the quality and conviction of the film relies on the oscillating tone and variety of ambition dispersed throughout the six short stories, Buster Scruggs is a savory encapsulation of everything else they've ever wished they could do with the dilapidated genre. Stagecoaches, gunslingers and wanted posters — I’d accuse them of simple deconstruction but the performances are too terrific, the scenery and production is too beautiful and the writing is too wily and pointed.
After the most parodic sketch for our titular character serves as the hilarious musical opener, the film takes the turn for the tragic, ironic and quietly existentialist. The fourth segment "All Gold Canyon" with Tom Waits as a guileless prospector in search of the shiny stuff, as well as courtship on the wagon trail in the highlight segment thereafter "The Girl Who Got Rattled," feel like miniature classics alongside many a Coen film. Every portion has a full purpose.
The Ballad of Buster Scruggs is relatively insignificant compared to your average Coen joint given its release platform and episodic structure. Still, despite themes and tricks which have served them all but flawlessly the past three decades, this album of a film is just the latest proof that cinema's best bros will never be done catching you off guard with a poetic swoop of melancholy or a proper punch of mirthfulness.
Fantastic Beasts:
The Crimes of Grindelwald briefing
1 ½ (out of 4)
J. K. Rowling proved herself fantasy's biggest fraud once she reached the uninspired denouement of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows — wow Harry is just like Jesus, amazing. Later her poorly received Broadway play Harry Potter and the Cursed Child and a direct cinematic debut in the tolerably superficial Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them presented little evidence that the Wizarding World is as carefully thought through as fans want to believe. Regardless, Rowling's first screenplay was the inception of a prospective five-film franchise and Warner Brothers will scour and scrounge for every cent they can retrieve from the carcass of their most regularly profitable property.
In following up the phenomenon of her young adult heptalogy, Rowling has gone down a path trodden most famously by George Lucas: attempting to cement the touchstone of one's creative legacy with fruitless, inconsequential prequels. The history of wizards and witches has infinite potential for narrative pleasures but Rowling's new stories are pathetically written. She's distorted Pottermania in order to sow the seeds for future, equally undesirable films — this is universe-expansion at its worst and The Crimes of Grindelwald echoes the ills of Star Wars in more ways than one.
Though Rowling, just like Lucas, leans on both homage and her own basic mythos for support, here she's reaching Disney-level spoon-fed fan service. It's as if either her lack of palpable genius or studio interference demanded a certain number of callbacks and Easter eggs to the recognizable elements of the very familiar world of Harry Potter (remember THE SORC-uh I mean PHILOSOPHER'S STONE?!). The Force Awakens and Rogue One are just as shameless in this respect but where the SW comparisons paint the most proportionate picture is in how similar Grindelwald is to The Last Jedi. Both films are thorough failures rendered slightly noble by overindulgence for the sake of artistic investigation. The Crimes of Grindelwald is full of enterprising concepts but it's risky and daring in the exact same illogical and ideologically misplaced fashion Episode VIII was last year. For all its moving parts, nothing is of particular importance and narrative momentum is a mere illusion. Rowling tries her hand at many conflicts, characters, jokes and action sequences, but they all feel reminiscent of better times in the Potterverse no matter how far she ventures from well-known areas.
It's tempting to liken The Crimes of Grindelwald to a Disney product, given how often they try to trick you into thinking you're watching prime Potter, but only a prima donna like Rowling could reach Zach Snyder levels of dreariness. A film with the central premise of magic should be, ya know, fun but with a dozen characters to cycle through — casting includes Zoë Kravitz, Callum Turner, the returning Ezra Miller, Dan Fogler, Alison Sudol, the list goes on — and three whole movies to set up, boredom sets in quickly. I enjoy how basic spells now require no exposition but those little efficiencies don't leave the plot any less bumbled. David Yates is in his sixth go around with the wand-waving stuff and all this entry adds up to is an extended trailer for the rest of the series.
Even our lead — Eddie Redmayne's Newt Scamander — feels swept up and mistaken for a side character. Like in the previous installment, Newt's relationship with Katherine Waterston's Tina Goldstein is the solitary point of emotional interest. Jude Law and Johnny Depp are both well chosen as youthful Dumbledore and Grindelwald respectively, and though they perform with dignity the overcrowded script simply doesn't afford them enough screen time. Instead we have 15 minutes outlining the Lestrange family tree and recycling themes on racism from back in the Chris Columbus days.
The first Fantastic Beasts was properly self-contained other than that stupid final twist. It benefited from a level of lukewarm originality despite being inferior to even the campiest (Chamber of Secrets) or the most infuriatingly adapted (Order of the Phoenix) of the former film series. Grindelwald's gotcha ending is much worse than its predecessor and wastes a lot more time setting it up. Just like she developed a habit of climactic, emotional deaths from entries four through six of Harry Potter, Rowling presently mistakes pointless character lineage reveals for dramatic payoff.
J. K. Rowling proved herself fantasy's biggest fraud once she reached the uninspired denouement of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows — wow Harry is just like Jesus, amazing. Later her poorly received Broadway play Harry Potter and the Cursed Child and a direct cinematic debut in the tolerably superficial Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them presented little evidence that the Wizarding World is as carefully thought through as fans want to believe. Regardless, Rowling's first screenplay was the inception of a prospective five-film franchise and Warner Brothers will scour and scrounge for every cent they can retrieve from the carcass of their most regularly profitable property.
In following up the phenomenon of her young adult heptalogy, Rowling has gone down a path trodden most famously by George Lucas: attempting to cement the touchstone of one's creative legacy with fruitless, inconsequential prequels. The history of wizards and witches has infinite potential for narrative pleasures but Rowling's new stories are pathetically written. She's distorted Pottermania in order to sow the seeds for future, equally undesirable films — this is universe-expansion at its worst and The Crimes of Grindelwald echoes the ills of Star Wars in more ways than one.
Though Rowling, just like Lucas, leans on both homage and her own basic mythos for support, here she's reaching Disney-level spoon-fed fan service. It's as if either her lack of palpable genius or studio interference demanded a certain number of callbacks and Easter eggs to the recognizable elements of the very familiar world of Harry Potter (remember THE SORC-uh I mean PHILOSOPHER'S STONE?!). The Force Awakens and Rogue One are just as shameless in this respect but where the SW comparisons paint the most proportionate picture is in how similar Grindelwald is to The Last Jedi. Both films are thorough failures rendered slightly noble by overindulgence for the sake of artistic investigation. The Crimes of Grindelwald is full of enterprising concepts but it's risky and daring in the exact same illogical and ideologically misplaced fashion Episode VIII was last year. For all its moving parts, nothing is of particular importance and narrative momentum is a mere illusion. Rowling tries her hand at many conflicts, characters, jokes and action sequences, but they all feel reminiscent of better times in the Potterverse no matter how far she ventures from well-known areas.
It's tempting to liken The Crimes of Grindelwald to a Disney product, given how often they try to trick you into thinking you're watching prime Potter, but only a prima donna like Rowling could reach Zach Snyder levels of dreariness. A film with the central premise of magic should be, ya know, fun but with a dozen characters to cycle through — casting includes Zoë Kravitz, Callum Turner, the returning Ezra Miller, Dan Fogler, Alison Sudol, the list goes on — and three whole movies to set up, boredom sets in quickly. I enjoy how basic spells now require no exposition but those little efficiencies don't leave the plot any less bumbled. David Yates is in his sixth go around with the wand-waving stuff and all this entry adds up to is an extended trailer for the rest of the series.
Even our lead — Eddie Redmayne's Newt Scamander — feels swept up and mistaken for a side character. Like in the previous installment, Newt's relationship with Katherine Waterston's Tina Goldstein is the solitary point of emotional interest. Jude Law and Johnny Depp are both well chosen as youthful Dumbledore and Grindelwald respectively, and though they perform with dignity the overcrowded script simply doesn't afford them enough screen time. Instead we have 15 minutes outlining the Lestrange family tree and recycling themes on racism from back in the Chris Columbus days.
The first Fantastic Beasts was properly self-contained other than that stupid final twist. It benefited from a level of lukewarm originality despite being inferior to even the campiest (Chamber of Secrets) or the most infuriatingly adapted (Order of the Phoenix) of the former film series. Grindelwald's gotcha ending is much worse than its predecessor and wastes a lot more time setting it up. Just like she developed a habit of climactic, emotional deaths from entries four through six of Harry Potter, Rowling presently mistakes pointless character lineage reveals for dramatic payoff.
Widows briefing
2 ½ (out of 4)
Steve McQueen requires no introduction. The man can lay claim to the most heartrending and meritorious Best Picture winner of the decade and his lean filmography has thus far been spotless. After a few years toiling away on a scrapped HBO limited series, McQueen returns to cinema with his dramatic heist film Widows, doubtless his most accessible release yet.
On paper the film appears to be an unmistakable masterwork in the making and an effortless triumph for McQueen. Apart from plenty of prestige and the pertinent subjects of female empowerment and political cynicism, the cast of Widows is a distinguished list of players. Just with Viola Davis in the lead — which is to not mention Elizabeth Debicki, Robert Duvall, Colin Farrell, Daniel Kaluuya, Liam Neeson, Michelle Rodriguez and Jacki Weaver supporting — this appeared, from afar, to not only be a shoo-in for Academy buzz but destined for the higher honor of copious praise among the year's finest. Disappointment can be as hard to shake as exaggerated expectations following such a monumental career yet Widows, for all its relative inadequacies, is one of the stronger releases in an anemic holiday lineup.
You want to love it — the premise compels curiosity, the direction is fully realized and the performances are more than serviceable. But it's difficult to deny the ultimate disenchantment Widows leaves. Hunger, Shame and, most decisively, 12 Years a Slave were all stories bearing urgency and purpose in their telling — the formal integrity merely sealed their potency. Widows too is forged with cinematic intelligence on behalf of McQueen's direction but Gillian Flynn’s story, based on a 1983 British television series, can’t escape the framework of a soap opera or a sleazy paperback. No matter how fetching the feminine heist concept or how passionate the acting can be, the twists, buildup and even the memorable encounters with Daniel Kaluuya are stilted at minimum, and the climax is frustratingly scant. As a comeback following a try at television, Widows is superficial enough to say it'd be better suited for the small screen like its derivation.
But as much as the critiques come faster when the maker's résumé is most laudable, when the film works it crackles like I dearly hoped it would. Davis and everyone behind her put forth fortitude and McQueen makes the most of the film’s terse bursts of action. It's best moments may not quite compensate for its substantial weaknesses but Widows earns a positive reaction by the skin of its teeth and the preeminence of its credentials.
Steve McQueen requires no introduction. The man can lay claim to the most heartrending and meritorious Best Picture winner of the decade and his lean filmography has thus far been spotless. After a few years toiling away on a scrapped HBO limited series, McQueen returns to cinema with his dramatic heist film Widows, doubtless his most accessible release yet.
On paper the film appears to be an unmistakable masterwork in the making and an effortless triumph for McQueen. Apart from plenty of prestige and the pertinent subjects of female empowerment and political cynicism, the cast of Widows is a distinguished list of players. Just with Viola Davis in the lead — which is to not mention Elizabeth Debicki, Robert Duvall, Colin Farrell, Daniel Kaluuya, Liam Neeson, Michelle Rodriguez and Jacki Weaver supporting — this appeared, from afar, to not only be a shoo-in for Academy buzz but destined for the higher honor of copious praise among the year's finest. Disappointment can be as hard to shake as exaggerated expectations following such a monumental career yet Widows, for all its relative inadequacies, is one of the stronger releases in an anemic holiday lineup.
You want to love it — the premise compels curiosity, the direction is fully realized and the performances are more than serviceable. But it's difficult to deny the ultimate disenchantment Widows leaves. Hunger, Shame and, most decisively, 12 Years a Slave were all stories bearing urgency and purpose in their telling — the formal integrity merely sealed their potency. Widows too is forged with cinematic intelligence on behalf of McQueen's direction but Gillian Flynn’s story, based on a 1983 British television series, can’t escape the framework of a soap opera or a sleazy paperback. No matter how fetching the feminine heist concept or how passionate the acting can be, the twists, buildup and even the memorable encounters with Daniel Kaluuya are stilted at minimum, and the climax is frustratingly scant. As a comeback following a try at television, Widows is superficial enough to say it'd be better suited for the small screen like its derivation.
But as much as the critiques come faster when the maker's résumé is most laudable, when the film works it crackles like I dearly hoped it would. Davis and everyone behind her put forth fortitude and McQueen makes the most of the film’s terse bursts of action. It's best moments may not quite compensate for its substantial weaknesses but Widows earns a positive reaction by the skin of its teeth and the preeminence of its credentials.
The Girl in the Spider's Web briefing
1 ½ (out of 4)
Claire Foy is having an exemplary breakout year and a leading role in a film as insignificant as The Girl in the Spider’s Web can’t hamper the momentum of her ascending career. She was the phenomenal face of Steven Soderbergh's Unsane — perhaps the most underrated movie of the year — and Foy is likely to lock down a Best Supporting Actress nomination for First Man.
As the newest Lisbeth Salander, Foy is suitable enough as the hot topic hacker but she doesn't possess the right shade of brooding, fragile vigor embodied by Noomi Rapace or Rooney Mara. Still she manages to considerably enhance the shoddy material with her capable presence in spite of a flimsy accent. Miscasting is the least of Spider’s Web's problems — the faithful Swedish adaptations of Stieg Larsson’s beloved trilogy as well as David Fincher’s robust American remake all offer unquestionably superior adult escapism. If the latest film seems like an off-brand reboot, it's because the substandard incarnation stems from books written by David Lagercrantz, Larsson’s successor to the Millennium series following his death in 2004.
While director Fede Álvarez skillfully devised 2016's enjoyable horror hit Don’t Breathe after initiating his career with a Sam Raimi-approved Evil Dead redo, his inky, icy touch isn’t enough to either improve a deficient script he helped pen or give Lisbeth back her established infamy. To be fair, even Fincher’s meticulous murkiness wouldn’t be able to redeem the trite tangle of Spider’s Web, which takes everything annoyingly implausible about Jason Bourne movies twice as grave. There are a few neat sequences in the first act but once Salander's story is wrapped up with Lakeith Stanfield’s overly gifted NSA agent, a long lost sister/cartoon villain played by Sylvia Hoeks (Luv of Blade Runner 2049) and a targeted youngster (Christopher Convery) comically forced into her care, the plotting becomes plodding.
The emotional pivots of the film are as flaccid and formulaic as they are in a trashy James Bond movie. Spider’s Web pedestrian script chooses to forgo the mystery element of the series in order to posit itself as a fashionably clichéd action movie just violent enough to bear an R rating, convoluted enough to qualify as mature and packed with enough tepid confrontations and spyware to call it a thriller. This Girl's worst sin is it stretches a meager 43 million dollar budget into blockbuster bucks, actively assisting audience indifference by amping up what should be mostly macabre and enigmatic. Ironically every attempt to inject excitement into this misguided bit of brand burnishing is another compounding instance of disinterest.
Claire Foy is having an exemplary breakout year and a leading role in a film as insignificant as The Girl in the Spider’s Web can’t hamper the momentum of her ascending career. She was the phenomenal face of Steven Soderbergh's Unsane — perhaps the most underrated movie of the year — and Foy is likely to lock down a Best Supporting Actress nomination for First Man.
As the newest Lisbeth Salander, Foy is suitable enough as the hot topic hacker but she doesn't possess the right shade of brooding, fragile vigor embodied by Noomi Rapace or Rooney Mara. Still she manages to considerably enhance the shoddy material with her capable presence in spite of a flimsy accent. Miscasting is the least of Spider’s Web's problems — the faithful Swedish adaptations of Stieg Larsson’s beloved trilogy as well as David Fincher’s robust American remake all offer unquestionably superior adult escapism. If the latest film seems like an off-brand reboot, it's because the substandard incarnation stems from books written by David Lagercrantz, Larsson’s successor to the Millennium series following his death in 2004.
While director Fede Álvarez skillfully devised 2016's enjoyable horror hit Don’t Breathe after initiating his career with a Sam Raimi-approved Evil Dead redo, his inky, icy touch isn’t enough to either improve a deficient script he helped pen or give Lisbeth back her established infamy. To be fair, even Fincher’s meticulous murkiness wouldn’t be able to redeem the trite tangle of Spider’s Web, which takes everything annoyingly implausible about Jason Bourne movies twice as grave. There are a few neat sequences in the first act but once Salander's story is wrapped up with Lakeith Stanfield’s overly gifted NSA agent, a long lost sister/cartoon villain played by Sylvia Hoeks (Luv of Blade Runner 2049) and a targeted youngster (Christopher Convery) comically forced into her care, the plotting becomes plodding.
The emotional pivots of the film are as flaccid and formulaic as they are in a trashy James Bond movie. Spider’s Web pedestrian script chooses to forgo the mystery element of the series in order to posit itself as a fashionably clichéd action movie just violent enough to bear an R rating, convoluted enough to qualify as mature and packed with enough tepid confrontations and spyware to call it a thriller. This Girl's worst sin is it stretches a meager 43 million dollar budget into blockbuster bucks, actively assisting audience indifference by amping up what should be mostly macabre and enigmatic. Ironically every attempt to inject excitement into this misguided bit of brand burnishing is another compounding instance of disinterest.
Wildlife briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
Paul Dano offers 2018 its supreme actor-turned-director display — the eccentric performer's cinematic savvy exceeds ambitious A-listers like Bradley Cooper, Jonah Hill or John Krasinski in front of or behind the camera. While no gobsmacking masterpiece, Wildlife is a dexterous, contemplative period drama ripe with accomplished filmmaking facets across the spectrum. The decor, lighting and editing, not to mention the stellar stagecraft, are superlative — this doesn’t feel like Dano’s first rodeo.
Written by both Dano and his longtime romantic partner Zoe Kazan, Wildlife is adapted from the 1990 novel of the same name by Richard Ford. Refining the material to his liking, Dano has no trouble composing a solemn meditation on the disintegration of nuclear-era domesticity. The applicability of the 1960-set film lies largely in the erosion of the era's idealism and the atrophy of marital love. Wildlife looks straight into the blemished, resentful face of divorce and precisely paints all the unspoken pain it yields.
It's unfair to Dano but Wildlife is an actor's film if ever there was one. Carey Mulligan, Jake Gyllenhaal and Ed Oxenbould are each extraordinary individually and terrific together. The experienced parental performers exhibit themselves to the foremost of their abilities, and the authenticity of the sprouting teenage lead, in all his frustrated powerlessness, hits too close for comfort. Gyllenhaal — still as superb as we've come to expect — might have outshone Mulligan's motherly role if he wasn't so absent from the story. As a lonely wife losing grasp of her fidelity and maternal instincts, Mulligan adds to a repertoire already stocked full of impressive achievements with a career-best performance.
This subdued stroke of genius is no contender for much awards consideration. Yet even narrowly examined as an acting showcase, Wildlife is more unnecessary evidence of Hollywood outsider Paul Dano's capacity for classic creative contributions. And yes, Mulligan and Gyllenhaal will have their Oscar speeches planned for some career-encapsulating project down the road, but it's Ed Oxenbould bearing the film's soul. While he's a discouragingly passive protagonist, Oxenbould's acting reflects a reserved, discontented modesty Dano has come to exhibit so well himself.
Wildlife is bolstered by indispensable themes and masterly performances, and Dano's manner in arranging these elements lets the film settle like a rich delicacy even at its most dispiriting.
Paul Dano offers 2018 its supreme actor-turned-director display — the eccentric performer's cinematic savvy exceeds ambitious A-listers like Bradley Cooper, Jonah Hill or John Krasinski in front of or behind the camera. While no gobsmacking masterpiece, Wildlife is a dexterous, contemplative period drama ripe with accomplished filmmaking facets across the spectrum. The decor, lighting and editing, not to mention the stellar stagecraft, are superlative — this doesn’t feel like Dano’s first rodeo.
Written by both Dano and his longtime romantic partner Zoe Kazan, Wildlife is adapted from the 1990 novel of the same name by Richard Ford. Refining the material to his liking, Dano has no trouble composing a solemn meditation on the disintegration of nuclear-era domesticity. The applicability of the 1960-set film lies largely in the erosion of the era's idealism and the atrophy of marital love. Wildlife looks straight into the blemished, resentful face of divorce and precisely paints all the unspoken pain it yields.
It's unfair to Dano but Wildlife is an actor's film if ever there was one. Carey Mulligan, Jake Gyllenhaal and Ed Oxenbould are each extraordinary individually and terrific together. The experienced parental performers exhibit themselves to the foremost of their abilities, and the authenticity of the sprouting teenage lead, in all his frustrated powerlessness, hits too close for comfort. Gyllenhaal — still as superb as we've come to expect — might have outshone Mulligan's motherly role if he wasn't so absent from the story. As a lonely wife losing grasp of her fidelity and maternal instincts, Mulligan adds to a repertoire already stocked full of impressive achievements with a career-best performance.
This subdued stroke of genius is no contender for much awards consideration. Yet even narrowly examined as an acting showcase, Wildlife is more unnecessary evidence of Hollywood outsider Paul Dano's capacity for classic creative contributions. And yes, Mulligan and Gyllenhaal will have their Oscar speeches planned for some career-encapsulating project down the road, but it's Ed Oxenbould bearing the film's soul. While he's a discouragingly passive protagonist, Oxenbould's acting reflects a reserved, discontented modesty Dano has come to exhibit so well himself.
Wildlife is bolstered by indispensable themes and masterly performances, and Dano's manner in arranging these elements lets the film settle like a rich delicacy even at its most dispiriting.
The Nutcracker and the Four Realms briefing
1 ½ (out of 4)
With Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s rapturously iconic ballet and a story as simple and surreal as E. T. A. Hoffmann's enduring 1816 fable at your disposal — not to mention 120 million dollars — how did Disney's spin on a Christmas classic turn out as pitifully deficient as The Nutcracker and the Four Realms?
Since, as a rule, invented sequels to popular lore are always inferior to their inspirations (how I hate to recall Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland), the abundantly affluent studio has warped dreamlike source material into a dull and diluted fantasy adventure. Disney is exceedingly practiced at shaping digestible, predictable family-friendly fare but their proclivity for pressing their stamp on established fiction could use some restraint after decades of appropriation. You don't need to see the names of two directors in the credits — Lasse Hallström primarily and Joe Johnston for reshoots — to realize this Nutcracker was produced not by creative impetus but rather to cash in on the ballet's lasting onstage popularity.
Every character is an indistinct caricature — Morgan Freeman as Drosselmeyer, Keira Knightly as the Sugar Plum Fairy nor Mackenzie Foy as the central figure Clara can salvage tacky, joyless filmmaking. But actors were less the principal reason I entered a tyke-teeming theater than for Tchaikovsky's orchestral music. The movements alone are dazzlingly, resplendently expressive as Disney themselves proved in one of their greatest achievements Fantasia. At first some of the most famous sonic passages are present before getting misplaced within plot-heavy rubbish when dancing could have told the story far better than neophyte Ashleigh Powell's script. James Newton Howard's accompanying score is forced to make up for the multiple movie moments Disney felt couldn't be harmonically sustained by the Russian composer's work — skilled as Howard is, his adjacent symphonic measures are meager next to Tchaikovsky’s innumerable timeless melodies.
In discounting unrestricted access to a wellspring of beautiful music and storytelling, Disney moreover squanders the opportunity to produce a potentially definitive screen version of The Nutcracker. The 1986 Maurice Sendak-assisted attempt did the ballet best and the Japanese 1979 stop motion feature exercised real narrative invention — neither are exactly exemplar but the Mouse King of the real world had boundless resources and wasted them all. Although this Nutcracker's sheer production value is exorbitant, the fantastical factors are implemented without awe or splendor.
With Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s rapturously iconic ballet and a story as simple and surreal as E. T. A. Hoffmann's enduring 1816 fable at your disposal — not to mention 120 million dollars — how did Disney's spin on a Christmas classic turn out as pitifully deficient as The Nutcracker and the Four Realms?
Since, as a rule, invented sequels to popular lore are always inferior to their inspirations (how I hate to recall Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland), the abundantly affluent studio has warped dreamlike source material into a dull and diluted fantasy adventure. Disney is exceedingly practiced at shaping digestible, predictable family-friendly fare but their proclivity for pressing their stamp on established fiction could use some restraint after decades of appropriation. You don't need to see the names of two directors in the credits — Lasse Hallström primarily and Joe Johnston for reshoots — to realize this Nutcracker was produced not by creative impetus but rather to cash in on the ballet's lasting onstage popularity.
Every character is an indistinct caricature — Morgan Freeman as Drosselmeyer, Keira Knightly as the Sugar Plum Fairy nor Mackenzie Foy as the central figure Clara can salvage tacky, joyless filmmaking. But actors were less the principal reason I entered a tyke-teeming theater than for Tchaikovsky's orchestral music. The movements alone are dazzlingly, resplendently expressive as Disney themselves proved in one of their greatest achievements Fantasia. At first some of the most famous sonic passages are present before getting misplaced within plot-heavy rubbish when dancing could have told the story far better than neophyte Ashleigh Powell's script. James Newton Howard's accompanying score is forced to make up for the multiple movie moments Disney felt couldn't be harmonically sustained by the Russian composer's work — skilled as Howard is, his adjacent symphonic measures are meager next to Tchaikovsky’s innumerable timeless melodies.
In discounting unrestricted access to a wellspring of beautiful music and storytelling, Disney moreover squanders the opportunity to produce a potentially definitive screen version of The Nutcracker. The 1986 Maurice Sendak-assisted attempt did the ballet best and the Japanese 1979 stop motion feature exercised real narrative invention — neither are exactly exemplar but the Mouse King of the real world had boundless resources and wasted them all. Although this Nutcracker's sheer production value is exorbitant, the fantastical factors are implemented without awe or splendor.
Bohemian Rhapsody briefing
2 (out of 4)
After eight tumultuous years in production, the arrival of Bohemian Rhapsody is hardly the momentous occasion for the music biopic genre one might anticipate from transcribing the extravagance of Freddie Mercury to the screen. Succeeding only in staging the influential British rock band's most recognizable tracks with lifelike stand-ins and lively camerawork, the film is little more than a nostalgia overdose for baby boomers and Queen 101 for young punters.
Bohemian Rhapsody is manufactured to pander to those with scarcely an iota of familiarity with pop culture specifics, which is to say relatively anyone. But for music savants craving some scrutiny regarding Mercury's distinctive genius (the film isn't really concerned with Queen at large), prepare for the pangs of paltry, bullet-pointed and undeveloped scripting. Writer Anthony McCarten's screenplay is dominantly comprised of obvious references and historical simplifications — Queen's speedy rise to international domination from 1970 to 1985 is awkwardly crammed into a three-act script simulator. McCarten is contented to appeal to plebeian emotions and convert facts to fantasy, not unlike his other feathery and shamelessly sentimental English biopics The Theory of Everything and Darkest Hour.
However, the sloppy editing and shoestring narrative impetus can be chiefly blamed on Bryan Singer, who was fired as director late last year after rumors of showing up late to work and clashing with the film crew, especially lead Rami Malek. Singer's name has already been clouded by multiple accusations of child molestation but he deserves some extra derision for taking full credit for two-thirds the filmmaking labor while exhibiting less than half the stylistic commitment of even his worst X-Men film. Replacement director Dexter Fletcher, who is behind a new feature on the life of Elton John, has not been awarded recognition as per the rules of the Directors Guild of America.
Malek on the other hand is so much better than anyone who dearly wished for the Sacha Baron Cohen version could have hoped for. His prosthetic chompers are downright distracting in the first act but by the time the clean cut and mustache are in play, Malek operates smoothly as a convincing imitator of Mercury’s signature theatrical flamboyance. His acting alone, while exaggerated even for Mercury, salvages the film in spots. The supporting cast is also admirable — Gwilym Lee as lead guitarist Brian May, Ben Hardy as drummer Roger Taylor and Joseph Modello as bassist John Deacon are all just as plausible aside Malek's almost extraordinary performance. The real-life May and Taylor were consulted during production and were the most outspoken against Cohen's casting. Their input seems negligible though as Bohemian Rhapsody's chronology abbreviates the band's recorded past and the muffled PG-13 rating eschews the realities of rock and roll: sex, drugs and foul mouths.
Failing to live up to the traditional standards of Straight Outta Compton, Get On Up and Walk the Line, or even make an attempt at the experimental, poetic contemplations of I'm Not There or Love & Mercy, Bohemian Rhapsody is a safe and featureless portrait of a fearless and unforgettable performer. Still, the swimmingly climactic rendition of Queen's celebrated Live Aid concert and Malek's soulful caricature save the film from total tedium — easy come easy go.
After eight tumultuous years in production, the arrival of Bohemian Rhapsody is hardly the momentous occasion for the music biopic genre one might anticipate from transcribing the extravagance of Freddie Mercury to the screen. Succeeding only in staging the influential British rock band's most recognizable tracks with lifelike stand-ins and lively camerawork, the film is little more than a nostalgia overdose for baby boomers and Queen 101 for young punters.
Bohemian Rhapsody is manufactured to pander to those with scarcely an iota of familiarity with pop culture specifics, which is to say relatively anyone. But for music savants craving some scrutiny regarding Mercury's distinctive genius (the film isn't really concerned with Queen at large), prepare for the pangs of paltry, bullet-pointed and undeveloped scripting. Writer Anthony McCarten's screenplay is dominantly comprised of obvious references and historical simplifications — Queen's speedy rise to international domination from 1970 to 1985 is awkwardly crammed into a three-act script simulator. McCarten is contented to appeal to plebeian emotions and convert facts to fantasy, not unlike his other feathery and shamelessly sentimental English biopics The Theory of Everything and Darkest Hour.
However, the sloppy editing and shoestring narrative impetus can be chiefly blamed on Bryan Singer, who was fired as director late last year after rumors of showing up late to work and clashing with the film crew, especially lead Rami Malek. Singer's name has already been clouded by multiple accusations of child molestation but he deserves some extra derision for taking full credit for two-thirds the filmmaking labor while exhibiting less than half the stylistic commitment of even his worst X-Men film. Replacement director Dexter Fletcher, who is behind a new feature on the life of Elton John, has not been awarded recognition as per the rules of the Directors Guild of America.
Malek on the other hand is so much better than anyone who dearly wished for the Sacha Baron Cohen version could have hoped for. His prosthetic chompers are downright distracting in the first act but by the time the clean cut and mustache are in play, Malek operates smoothly as a convincing imitator of Mercury’s signature theatrical flamboyance. His acting alone, while exaggerated even for Mercury, salvages the film in spots. The supporting cast is also admirable — Gwilym Lee as lead guitarist Brian May, Ben Hardy as drummer Roger Taylor and Joseph Modello as bassist John Deacon are all just as plausible aside Malek's almost extraordinary performance. The real-life May and Taylor were consulted during production and were the most outspoken against Cohen's casting. Their input seems negligible though as Bohemian Rhapsody's chronology abbreviates the band's recorded past and the muffled PG-13 rating eschews the realities of rock and roll: sex, drugs and foul mouths.
Failing to live up to the traditional standards of Straight Outta Compton, Get On Up and Walk the Line, or even make an attempt at the experimental, poetic contemplations of I'm Not There or Love & Mercy, Bohemian Rhapsody is a safe and featureless portrait of a fearless and unforgettable performer. Still, the swimmingly climactic rendition of Queen's celebrated Live Aid concert and Malek's soulful caricature save the film from total tedium — easy come easy go.
Mid90s briefing
3 (out of 4)
In a year where several earnest movie actors readily acquired financing to inscribe their directorial mark — John Krasinski (A Quiet Place), Paul Dano (Wildlife) and of course Bradley Cooper (A Star Is Born) — Jonah Hill was not one I was betting on as a talent in waiting.
Endorsed by the mainstream arthouse distribution cred of A24, Mid90s is a succinct if slight debut largely for its consideration of an unfettered and guileless realism. Hill's explicit millennial backdrop screams brazen nostalgia but the near-contemporary scenery is an incidental template for character development and cultural observations. The film bears surface similarities to Boyhood in this regard even if Mid90s lacks the timeless immediacy of a coming-of-age classic.
Hill's film rests on his confidence in an assortment of young performers, all of whom do not fail him — the slim story is boosted beyond mumblecore pretensions by the lifelike acting. Hill’s conception prudently resists a wistful lens, and the naturalism is imperative to the way in which Mid90s presents the impressionable stages of adolescence — social acclamation, nasty habits — as well as the best and worst of formative experiences. Sunny Suljic (The Killing of a Sacred Deer) is astonishing as our pubescent protagonist and his blisses and frustrations quickly become our own.
I was a good little boy at age 13 but the ensemble of teenage characters Hill has gathered are a wildly authentic bunch. The family of young Steven is on the sidelines because that’s how every fresh teen wants to keep it; Katherine Waterston is mom and Lucas Hedges plays the older brother. Seriously injuring yourself, misunderstandings turned jealousies and succumbing to your friends' most damaging traits summarize the aching experience Hill has to offer — the general ambiguity in tone is a further positive, provoking nature vs. nurture arguments and speaking to the disillusioned perspective of early teenhood.
The widescreen-averse 4:3 frame evokes home movies but the stark compositions scrub all sentimentality. The only thing keeping reminiscence relevant is the needle-dropping soundtrack — a fun collection of choice hip hop singles from the genre's finest era intermingled with generation-appropriate alt-rock tracks. It's a pleasing time capsule on its own but even the grooviest of playlists shouldn't supplant original material from Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross employing their wizardry à la The Social Network. In all there are 90s references aplenty but the microscopic story would remain soundly universal even removed from its titular framework.
In a year where several earnest movie actors readily acquired financing to inscribe their directorial mark — John Krasinski (A Quiet Place), Paul Dano (Wildlife) and of course Bradley Cooper (A Star Is Born) — Jonah Hill was not one I was betting on as a talent in waiting.
Endorsed by the mainstream arthouse distribution cred of A24, Mid90s is a succinct if slight debut largely for its consideration of an unfettered and guileless realism. Hill's explicit millennial backdrop screams brazen nostalgia but the near-contemporary scenery is an incidental template for character development and cultural observations. The film bears surface similarities to Boyhood in this regard even if Mid90s lacks the timeless immediacy of a coming-of-age classic.
Hill's film rests on his confidence in an assortment of young performers, all of whom do not fail him — the slim story is boosted beyond mumblecore pretensions by the lifelike acting. Hill’s conception prudently resists a wistful lens, and the naturalism is imperative to the way in which Mid90s presents the impressionable stages of adolescence — social acclamation, nasty habits — as well as the best and worst of formative experiences. Sunny Suljic (The Killing of a Sacred Deer) is astonishing as our pubescent protagonist and his blisses and frustrations quickly become our own.
I was a good little boy at age 13 but the ensemble of teenage characters Hill has gathered are a wildly authentic bunch. The family of young Steven is on the sidelines because that’s how every fresh teen wants to keep it; Katherine Waterston is mom and Lucas Hedges plays the older brother. Seriously injuring yourself, misunderstandings turned jealousies and succumbing to your friends' most damaging traits summarize the aching experience Hill has to offer — the general ambiguity in tone is a further positive, provoking nature vs. nurture arguments and speaking to the disillusioned perspective of early teenhood.
The widescreen-averse 4:3 frame evokes home movies but the stark compositions scrub all sentimentality. The only thing keeping reminiscence relevant is the needle-dropping soundtrack — a fun collection of choice hip hop singles from the genre's finest era intermingled with generation-appropriate alt-rock tracks. It's a pleasing time capsule on its own but even the grooviest of playlists shouldn't supplant original material from Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross employing their wizardry à la The Social Network. In all there are 90s references aplenty but the microscopic story would remain soundly universal even removed from its titular framework.
Bad Times at the El Royale briefing
3 (out of 4)
Drew Goddard's praiseworthy pastiche The Cabin in the Woods was a cunning, subversive debut — his follow-up similarly revels in straying off expected paths, this time with respect to comic thrillers and neo-noirs. The writer-director saunters past his meta mayhem, selling us a more mature second feature on a bigger promise of rejuvenating originality. Bad Times at the El Royale is damn near an equally absurd blast of untamed postmodern genre fireworks but it doesn't really exceed the limitations of imitation. Goddard has merely swapped out slashers for Tarantino flicks.
Rather than skillfully catering to middlebrow self-awareness and smug parody, instead this film is populated by complex, memorable characterizations without sarcastically making light of archetypes. The plot is a bit flimsy given the formidable length but the runtime's easy passin' even when the story warrants it least. The Hitchcockian obsession with voyeurism — Goddard sure has a thing for two-way mirrors — is the one dominant shared trait between Cabin and Bad Times, and both films are embellished by scopophilic themes.
But my oh my does Goddard have Quentin’s intentions firmly at heart — there are chapter titles, overlapping and fragmented nonlinear storylines, satiric needle drops, bombastic monologues amidst smoothly detached discourse and the occasional violent crime. It's not Pulp Fiction but nearly all of Bad Times' pivoted motivations and twists of fate have their own purpose. Caught at the border of greatness between Nevada and California, Goddard's sophomore song and dance is an ambitious yarn, a full and overdone episode fashioned for acute escapism by its systematic unpredictability and the commitment of performers known (Jon Hamm, Jeff Bridges, Dakota Johnson and Chris Hemsworth) and unknown (Cynthia Erivo, Lewis Pullman). Hamm's sleuthing spy posing as a vacuum cleaner salesman and Erivo's struggling songstress are enthralling in their portions of the story. On the other hand Hemsworth's third act arrival as a pedophile cult leader isn't as narratively invigorating as you might think.
In whole though, Goddard invokes scintillating situations and novel conflicts whilst expanding his capabilities as a visually instinctive talent. In the 1970s setting, the ironically fitted pop songs provide whimsical undertones in the eccentric atmosphere, but select soul samples only sometimes yield the precise ambiance. Despite how handsomely orchestrated and persistently intriguing Bad Times is in its most bewitching passages, with his influences so glaring it's not quite enough to confirm the value of Goddard's own attributes. Yet the multifaceted vantages across simultaneous events, capricious plotting and optic fastidiousness nevertheless deem El Royale well worth a visit.
Drew Goddard's praiseworthy pastiche The Cabin in the Woods was a cunning, subversive debut — his follow-up similarly revels in straying off expected paths, this time with respect to comic thrillers and neo-noirs. The writer-director saunters past his meta mayhem, selling us a more mature second feature on a bigger promise of rejuvenating originality. Bad Times at the El Royale is damn near an equally absurd blast of untamed postmodern genre fireworks but it doesn't really exceed the limitations of imitation. Goddard has merely swapped out slashers for Tarantino flicks.
Rather than skillfully catering to middlebrow self-awareness and smug parody, instead this film is populated by complex, memorable characterizations without sarcastically making light of archetypes. The plot is a bit flimsy given the formidable length but the runtime's easy passin' even when the story warrants it least. The Hitchcockian obsession with voyeurism — Goddard sure has a thing for two-way mirrors — is the one dominant shared trait between Cabin and Bad Times, and both films are embellished by scopophilic themes.
But my oh my does Goddard have Quentin’s intentions firmly at heart — there are chapter titles, overlapping and fragmented nonlinear storylines, satiric needle drops, bombastic monologues amidst smoothly detached discourse and the occasional violent crime. It's not Pulp Fiction but nearly all of Bad Times' pivoted motivations and twists of fate have their own purpose. Caught at the border of greatness between Nevada and California, Goddard's sophomore song and dance is an ambitious yarn, a full and overdone episode fashioned for acute escapism by its systematic unpredictability and the commitment of performers known (Jon Hamm, Jeff Bridges, Dakota Johnson and Chris Hemsworth) and unknown (Cynthia Erivo, Lewis Pullman). Hamm's sleuthing spy posing as a vacuum cleaner salesman and Erivo's struggling songstress are enthralling in their portions of the story. On the other hand Hemsworth's third act arrival as a pedophile cult leader isn't as narratively invigorating as you might think.
In whole though, Goddard invokes scintillating situations and novel conflicts whilst expanding his capabilities as a visually instinctive talent. In the 1970s setting, the ironically fitted pop songs provide whimsical undertones in the eccentric atmosphere, but select soul samples only sometimes yield the precise ambiance. Despite how handsomely orchestrated and persistently intriguing Bad Times is in its most bewitching passages, with his influences so glaring it's not quite enough to confirm the value of Goddard's own attributes. Yet the multifaceted vantages across simultaneous events, capricious plotting and optic fastidiousness nevertheless deem El Royale well worth a visit.
First Man briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
Damien Chazelle hasn’t set forth one false step as a burgeoning filmmaker. Following critical and popular breakthroughs as sublimely exhibitionist as Whiplash and La La Land, the youngest Best Director Oscar winner in history finally forgoes involvement in writing to offer his first film not to originate directly from personal inspiration. First Man is not just a customary biopic, however — Chazelle’s fervor regarding everything cinematic, in addition to his admiration for Neil Armstrong's attributes, emits the auteurist fumes of his proven prolific competence.
Returning to the cinema vérité camerawork of his unassuming debut Guy and Madeline on a Park Bench — the lo-fi musical romance prototype for his most visually and emotionally accomplished film to date La La Land — Chazelle fixes First Man with many fewer degrees of obsessive directorial control than his recent films. Linus Sandgren's cinematography is vibrating and voluptuous, implementing 60s era documentary-style footage with textured, handheld intimacy. But a lessening of sheer scrupulousness in favor of palpable realism is precisely why this take on history is so dynamic and Chazelle's sensibilities toward the spectacle of space travel are so idiosyncratic. He outdoes Christopher Nolan (Interstellar, Dunkirk) at not only the sentimental hurdles of impactful intergalactic epics but also in aerial photography, sound design and properly presented IMAX 70mm photography.
Ryan Gosling’s borderline autistic impassivity couldn’t be any better suited for someone as painstakingly insular and disciplined – Gosling's too much of the Goose we all love instead of the first man himself but the film still confirms he and Chazelle are a godly cinematic pairing. Claire Foy continues to make 2018 her year — following phenomenal work in Steven Soderbergh’s Unsane and with her incarnation of the Dragon Tattood Girl around the corner — as Armstrong’s resilient wife. Foy and Gosling are an on-screen couple of rare verisimilitude and the drama they are able to impart from Josh Singer's script supersedes his other historical awards fare like Spotlight and The Post. Singer sensibly portions personal sacrifice over jingoist history.
First Man's model of the extravagance and magnitude of the space race is crystalline, with every relevant curiosity and danger from the bygone era of scientific exploration included. 50 years later the skepticism towards NASA’s value at taxpayer expense is practically the same. In relation to the revival of space movies, Alfonso Cuarón (Gravity), Nolan (Interstellar) and Ridley Scott (The Martian) were unable to grasp at as much humanity, sympathy and 'real science' as each reached for. Whether it's bland humor, simplified and shoehorned exposition or emotional ploys, they all floundered artistically despite technical prowess. Chazelle's strategies in First Man are so subdued, straightforward and realistic the clichés of the typical historic Oscar bait can't weasel their way in and spoil things. Tinfoil hat-wearers might protest but even though Chazelle's so polished at fiction his vision of the real world and the moon landing (the one that Kubrick didn't direct) is credible and unmistakable.
With America’s feat as a forgone conclusion, Chazelle’s focus on the absurd and terrifying risks of Armstrong’s position aligns First Man with the unifying themes of his filmography — the integrity of exceptionalism at the expense of personal and familial tranquility. Like Armstrong himself, Chazelle is a considerate and prudent risk-taker, even when exercising his highest budget on his safest and weakest mainstream film thus far. First Man is a great film regardless because Chazelle's universal attitudes transcend biography and national triumphs. His rapid assimilation as master of multiple genres and his expert assemblage of music (the wonderful long-time partner Justin Hurwitz), editing and performance is a surplus of evidence to the 33-year old wunderkind's own comfortable cinematic dexterity.
Damien Chazelle hasn’t set forth one false step as a burgeoning filmmaker. Following critical and popular breakthroughs as sublimely exhibitionist as Whiplash and La La Land, the youngest Best Director Oscar winner in history finally forgoes involvement in writing to offer his first film not to originate directly from personal inspiration. First Man is not just a customary biopic, however — Chazelle’s fervor regarding everything cinematic, in addition to his admiration for Neil Armstrong's attributes, emits the auteurist fumes of his proven prolific competence.
Returning to the cinema vérité camerawork of his unassuming debut Guy and Madeline on a Park Bench — the lo-fi musical romance prototype for his most visually and emotionally accomplished film to date La La Land — Chazelle fixes First Man with many fewer degrees of obsessive directorial control than his recent films. Linus Sandgren's cinematography is vibrating and voluptuous, implementing 60s era documentary-style footage with textured, handheld intimacy. But a lessening of sheer scrupulousness in favor of palpable realism is precisely why this take on history is so dynamic and Chazelle's sensibilities toward the spectacle of space travel are so idiosyncratic. He outdoes Christopher Nolan (Interstellar, Dunkirk) at not only the sentimental hurdles of impactful intergalactic epics but also in aerial photography, sound design and properly presented IMAX 70mm photography.
Ryan Gosling’s borderline autistic impassivity couldn’t be any better suited for someone as painstakingly insular and disciplined – Gosling's too much of the Goose we all love instead of the first man himself but the film still confirms he and Chazelle are a godly cinematic pairing. Claire Foy continues to make 2018 her year — following phenomenal work in Steven Soderbergh’s Unsane and with her incarnation of the Dragon Tattood Girl around the corner — as Armstrong’s resilient wife. Foy and Gosling are an on-screen couple of rare verisimilitude and the drama they are able to impart from Josh Singer's script supersedes his other historical awards fare like Spotlight and The Post. Singer sensibly portions personal sacrifice over jingoist history.
First Man's model of the extravagance and magnitude of the space race is crystalline, with every relevant curiosity and danger from the bygone era of scientific exploration included. 50 years later the skepticism towards NASA’s value at taxpayer expense is practically the same. In relation to the revival of space movies, Alfonso Cuarón (Gravity), Nolan (Interstellar) and Ridley Scott (The Martian) were unable to grasp at as much humanity, sympathy and 'real science' as each reached for. Whether it's bland humor, simplified and shoehorned exposition or emotional ploys, they all floundered artistically despite technical prowess. Chazelle's strategies in First Man are so subdued, straightforward and realistic the clichés of the typical historic Oscar bait can't weasel their way in and spoil things. Tinfoil hat-wearers might protest but even though Chazelle's so polished at fiction his vision of the real world and the moon landing (the one that Kubrick didn't direct) is credible and unmistakable.
With America’s feat as a forgone conclusion, Chazelle’s focus on the absurd and terrifying risks of Armstrong’s position aligns First Man with the unifying themes of his filmography — the integrity of exceptionalism at the expense of personal and familial tranquility. Like Armstrong himself, Chazelle is a considerate and prudent risk-taker, even when exercising his highest budget on his safest and weakest mainstream film thus far. First Man is a great film regardless because Chazelle's universal attitudes transcend biography and national triumphs. His rapid assimilation as master of multiple genres and his expert assemblage of music (the wonderful long-time partner Justin Hurwitz), editing and performance is a surplus of evidence to the 33-year old wunderkind's own comfortable cinematic dexterity.
Venom briefing
2 ½ (out of 4)
I’ve alluded before that the Marvel Mouse has critics under its gloved thumb, but maybe Venom really is a case of a broad schism between audiences and reviewers. A Tomatometer as low as modern DC trash and less than half the score of the MCU's worst is perplexing once you see the movie for yourself — Venom is decent across all spectrums.
Of course Sony's superhero output isn't what you'd call a respectable track record, let alone the features they produce otherwise. Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man trilogy was a blessing for the early days of contemporary super-cinema but Ghost Rider, Spirit of Vengeance and the pair of amazingly inept Spider-Man rehashes do not indicate competence on behalf of the studio. Venom's 100 million dollar budget is stingy given the clear necessity for elaborate visual effects. And the PG-13 rating is a little lenient considering heads are chomped on scene by scene — this film isn't exactly designed to be fun for all ages, although vulgarity and gore for the sake of it a la Deadpool or Logan admittedly wouldn’t have improved anything. Those details plus a Tom Hardy interview confessing 40 minutes of the actor's favorite bits were pruned from the film indicated Venom was set up to suck.
That said, while it breaks no mold in superhero structure (third act clashes between CGI monsters, Bible-referencing villains, quips aplenty), Venom is not painfully self-aware, tastelessly violent or cringingly unfunny. With a classic origin story at its disposal and actors as adept as Tom Hardy and Michelle Williams enhancing the weakest lines of dialogue and most conventional genre clichés, the synergetic relationship between Hardy’s Eddie Brock and the gooey alien symbiote Venom becomes an antihero duo just distinctive enough to extol. The action is alright, the pacing is swift and, most advantageously, Hardy's caliber of dramatic acting and equal ability for brusque charm is weirdly well-suited for a disgraced reported dealing with a parasitic host that fits his body like a tailored blazer, merges into his conscious mind and transforms him into a voracious villain with or without consent. Nobody will be missing Topher Grace's role in Spider-Man 3 and you won't be thinking of Hardy's other superhuman brush as Bane in The Dark Knight Rises.
The film is an unusual tonal confluence with some rough editing, a climax determined to make the titular virulent invader out to be the good guy and a pointless post credits stinger. But the memorable blend of supernatural horror and B-movie sci-fi molds Venom into something far more enjoyable than it was foreordained to be.
I’ve alluded before that the Marvel Mouse has critics under its gloved thumb, but maybe Venom really is a case of a broad schism between audiences and reviewers. A Tomatometer as low as modern DC trash and less than half the score of the MCU's worst is perplexing once you see the movie for yourself — Venom is decent across all spectrums.
Of course Sony's superhero output isn't what you'd call a respectable track record, let alone the features they produce otherwise. Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man trilogy was a blessing for the early days of contemporary super-cinema but Ghost Rider, Spirit of Vengeance and the pair of amazingly inept Spider-Man rehashes do not indicate competence on behalf of the studio. Venom's 100 million dollar budget is stingy given the clear necessity for elaborate visual effects. And the PG-13 rating is a little lenient considering heads are chomped on scene by scene — this film isn't exactly designed to be fun for all ages, although vulgarity and gore for the sake of it a la Deadpool or Logan admittedly wouldn’t have improved anything. Those details plus a Tom Hardy interview confessing 40 minutes of the actor's favorite bits were pruned from the film indicated Venom was set up to suck.
That said, while it breaks no mold in superhero structure (third act clashes between CGI monsters, Bible-referencing villains, quips aplenty), Venom is not painfully self-aware, tastelessly violent or cringingly unfunny. With a classic origin story at its disposal and actors as adept as Tom Hardy and Michelle Williams enhancing the weakest lines of dialogue and most conventional genre clichés, the synergetic relationship between Hardy’s Eddie Brock and the gooey alien symbiote Venom becomes an antihero duo just distinctive enough to extol. The action is alright, the pacing is swift and, most advantageously, Hardy's caliber of dramatic acting and equal ability for brusque charm is weirdly well-suited for a disgraced reported dealing with a parasitic host that fits his body like a tailored blazer, merges into his conscious mind and transforms him into a voracious villain with or without consent. Nobody will be missing Topher Grace's role in Spider-Man 3 and you won't be thinking of Hardy's other superhuman brush as Bane in The Dark Knight Rises.
The film is an unusual tonal confluence with some rough editing, a climax determined to make the titular virulent invader out to be the good guy and a pointless post credits stinger. But the memorable blend of supernatural horror and B-movie sci-fi molds Venom into something far more enjoyable than it was foreordained to be.
A Simple Favor briefing
2 ½ (out of 4)
Paul Feig has next to nothing to live up to. The creation of Freaks and Geeks and a few episodes of The Office notwithstanding, his output has been primarily characterized by vulgar, Judd Apatow-knockoff improvisational farces. In offering mainstream alternatives for both women in Hollywood and ladies in the audience, the Ghostbusters remake, The Heat and even the overprized Bridesmaids hardly count as reasonable substitutes for exemplary comedies.
A diversion from the rubbish defining his career of late, A Simple Favor is a nimbly scripted respite, a relaxing guessing game succeeding almost entirely by virtue of Anna Kendrick’s instinctively emphatic talents. The story itself, quickly adapted from Darcey Bell's 2017 debut novel of the same name, is the sort of paperback fluff sure to rest on an upper class wine aunt's coffee table — that is, it's loaded with sex, murder and overreaching intrigue. But before it tries to get cutesy 'n' clever in the predictable climax, the film is a pleasing puzzle.
However, A Simple Favor operates better as a digestible mystery than as a black comedy, feminine thriller or as social commentary — if there wasn’t so much soap opera machination, Favor would be a real chore or just wouldn't have demanded to be made in the first place. Feig's film thrives mostly on account of the casting but at least the dialogue is decently droll and the plotting is expeditious.
While the roles of both Kendrick and Blake Lively are perfectly suited for their strengths, Lively can’t help but play a subsidiary part next to Kendrick’s alluring acting acumen. No part of her character's transformation from bashful, mommy-blogging widower to chic crime-solver feels as far-fetched as everything surrounding her. Kendrick's dainty, docile demeanor is exercised well in a script granting the Oscar-nominated actress an excuse to flaunt her ample range.
A Simple Favor brings a brand new definition to the word convoluted — regardless the sinuous story is still comfortable enough to get wrapped in even aside from Kendrick's distinct magnetism. The real solid Feig did for all of us was making a movie without Melissa McCarthy.
Paul Feig has next to nothing to live up to. The creation of Freaks and Geeks and a few episodes of The Office notwithstanding, his output has been primarily characterized by vulgar, Judd Apatow-knockoff improvisational farces. In offering mainstream alternatives for both women in Hollywood and ladies in the audience, the Ghostbusters remake, The Heat and even the overprized Bridesmaids hardly count as reasonable substitutes for exemplary comedies.
A diversion from the rubbish defining his career of late, A Simple Favor is a nimbly scripted respite, a relaxing guessing game succeeding almost entirely by virtue of Anna Kendrick’s instinctively emphatic talents. The story itself, quickly adapted from Darcey Bell's 2017 debut novel of the same name, is the sort of paperback fluff sure to rest on an upper class wine aunt's coffee table — that is, it's loaded with sex, murder and overreaching intrigue. But before it tries to get cutesy 'n' clever in the predictable climax, the film is a pleasing puzzle.
However, A Simple Favor operates better as a digestible mystery than as a black comedy, feminine thriller or as social commentary — if there wasn’t so much soap opera machination, Favor would be a real chore or just wouldn't have demanded to be made in the first place. Feig's film thrives mostly on account of the casting but at least the dialogue is decently droll and the plotting is expeditious.
While the roles of both Kendrick and Blake Lively are perfectly suited for their strengths, Lively can’t help but play a subsidiary part next to Kendrick’s alluring acting acumen. No part of her character's transformation from bashful, mommy-blogging widower to chic crime-solver feels as far-fetched as everything surrounding her. Kendrick's dainty, docile demeanor is exercised well in a script granting the Oscar-nominated actress an excuse to flaunt her ample range.
A Simple Favor brings a brand new definition to the word convoluted — regardless the sinuous story is still comfortable enough to get wrapped in even aside from Kendrick's distinct magnetism. The real solid Feig did for all of us was making a movie without Melissa McCarthy.
Mandy briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
Panos Cosmatos' first film Beyond the Black Rainbow was a distinguished failure — a visually consummate and narratively superficial sci-fi exercise born of relentless ambition regardless. Eight years later he's back to augment everything he experimented with in his debut. Mandy is a midnight movie masterstroke, undeniably and efficaciously psychedelic and superbly exhilarating.
Beginning with Cosmatos' familiar deliberation and obsessive ponderousness, Mandy unfurls into one of the most bananas revenge flicks ever sincerely committed to celluloid. Despite verging into pure schlock and awe by midway, the direction never falters from painstaking craftsmanship. The most ludicrous moments of frivolous gore or an unCaged Nicolas doing his thing handily harmonize with a world of bad acid, mutated bikers, psycho cults and extra large chainsaws.
Riding right between cogent dignity and his illustrious insanity primed for compilation videos, Cage is cruising in top form. He hasn’t been put to use this appropriately since Werner Herzog's Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans and his remarkable work as Red Miller stands alongside his most indelible turns. After Red and his titular girlfriend — an excellent Andrea Riseborough as a sympathetic, metalhead artist — are ripped from their idyllic, isolated home in the woods by strung out hippie freaks christened the Children of the New Dawn, led by megalomaniac Jeremiah Sand (Linus Roache as a vainglorious deceiver), Red takes up a blood-drenched crusade to avenge the cruel murder of poor Mandy.
In the realm of visual filmmaking, Cosmatos' exploits are sensational, meticulous and absolutely dazzling — in short, grainy, burnished perfection. Fueled by LSD and cocaine, the film's spiritual journey of retribution develops with an erratic, sublime beauty; Mandy is hallucinogenic as all hell. Although simplistic as storytelling, the film is exceedingly substantial in thematic and emotional composition. Its outrageous pleasures in atmosphere and symbolism aren’t exercised as ostentatiously as in BtBR.
Mandy is an uncompromising cult film basking in the pastiche and precedence of B-movie slashers and action flicks. In subject Cosmatos' film is the furthest thing from high art yet as audiovisual design (one of the late Johann Jóhannsson's final scores is an ideally ethereal counterpart) Mandy is transcendent. A meditative first act juxtaposes Mandy and Red's pastoral life with the New Dawn's delusional misgivings before the real title card finally appears over an hour in. From there the kaleidoscopic medley shifts to deeply gratifying genre absurdity.
As with Beyond the Black Rainbow, Cosmatos' lavishly seedy style is worked out long before the internal significance, but miraculously Mandy has abundantly more of the latter. His restless fastidiousness would make Nicolas Winding Refn seethe with jealousy and the gonzo, perversely illusory results speak for themselves. Offering moments that provoke, mystify, hypnotize and take your brain cells down paths few filmmakers dare to imagine, Mandy is a mad modern milestone and the best film of the year so far.
Panos Cosmatos' first film Beyond the Black Rainbow was a distinguished failure — a visually consummate and narratively superficial sci-fi exercise born of relentless ambition regardless. Eight years later he's back to augment everything he experimented with in his debut. Mandy is a midnight movie masterstroke, undeniably and efficaciously psychedelic and superbly exhilarating.
Beginning with Cosmatos' familiar deliberation and obsessive ponderousness, Mandy unfurls into one of the most bananas revenge flicks ever sincerely committed to celluloid. Despite verging into pure schlock and awe by midway, the direction never falters from painstaking craftsmanship. The most ludicrous moments of frivolous gore or an unCaged Nicolas doing his thing handily harmonize with a world of bad acid, mutated bikers, psycho cults and extra large chainsaws.
Riding right between cogent dignity and his illustrious insanity primed for compilation videos, Cage is cruising in top form. He hasn’t been put to use this appropriately since Werner Herzog's Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans and his remarkable work as Red Miller stands alongside his most indelible turns. After Red and his titular girlfriend — an excellent Andrea Riseborough as a sympathetic, metalhead artist — are ripped from their idyllic, isolated home in the woods by strung out hippie freaks christened the Children of the New Dawn, led by megalomaniac Jeremiah Sand (Linus Roache as a vainglorious deceiver), Red takes up a blood-drenched crusade to avenge the cruel murder of poor Mandy.
In the realm of visual filmmaking, Cosmatos' exploits are sensational, meticulous and absolutely dazzling — in short, grainy, burnished perfection. Fueled by LSD and cocaine, the film's spiritual journey of retribution develops with an erratic, sublime beauty; Mandy is hallucinogenic as all hell. Although simplistic as storytelling, the film is exceedingly substantial in thematic and emotional composition. Its outrageous pleasures in atmosphere and symbolism aren’t exercised as ostentatiously as in BtBR.
Mandy is an uncompromising cult film basking in the pastiche and precedence of B-movie slashers and action flicks. In subject Cosmatos' film is the furthest thing from high art yet as audiovisual design (one of the late Johann Jóhannsson's final scores is an ideally ethereal counterpart) Mandy is transcendent. A meditative first act juxtaposes Mandy and Red's pastoral life with the New Dawn's delusional misgivings before the real title card finally appears over an hour in. From there the kaleidoscopic medley shifts to deeply gratifying genre absurdity.
As with Beyond the Black Rainbow, Cosmatos' lavishly seedy style is worked out long before the internal significance, but miraculously Mandy has abundantly more of the latter. His restless fastidiousness would make Nicolas Winding Refn seethe with jealousy and the gonzo, perversely illusory results speak for themselves. Offering moments that provoke, mystify, hypnotize and take your brain cells down paths few filmmakers dare to imagine, Mandy is a mad modern milestone and the best film of the year so far.
Searching briefing
3 (out of 4)
John Cho's dramatic flexibility has been one to closely watch unfold — with White Castle days far behind him and Star Trek likely in the rearview, Cho spearheads the digitally inclined drama Searching from first-time director Aneesh Chaganty in a noble debut following a slew of short films.
Unlike the offshoot of found footage features capitalizing on the omnipresence of technology in the 2010s — Paranormal Activity 4, the Unfriended films — this movie far exceeds the cheap gimmicks of cyber-minded horror. The facets of its visual storytelling format are not only effective but also integral to the exceptional energy of this brisk, pulpy thriller.
Chaganty's work might have easily settled for exploiting Gen Z's ability to exist separate from their actual selves through the instant connectivity of social media and postmodern technology. But this is not a simple tale of a dad coming to grips with the taciturn mischief of his missing teenage daughter — Searching is a devilishly twisty, classically constructed mystery chock full of red herrings and rejuvenating revelations. It won’t quite blow your mind but this cybernated paperback novel of sorts is persistently and appropriately intriguing.
With Apple accessories abound, the blatant product placement is sure to be annoying if not distracting if the powerhouse brand isn't your tech go-to. Still, Searching's optic content isn't just logos and internet browsing — the taut editing interlinks desktop displays with FaceTime, security camera footage and television broadcasts to avoid any meandering one might expect from so modest a premise and framework. The scoring by Torin Borrowdale is also an understated asset, humming with morose piano melodies and propulsive electronic clicks — the slinking compositions are able to turn something as mundane as password verification into an absorbing process.
The film has a little too much to explain by its conclusion but Searching barely falters on its path to eagerly entertain, and Chaganty has little trouble in quietly hitting every emotional mark along the way.
John Cho's dramatic flexibility has been one to closely watch unfold — with White Castle days far behind him and Star Trek likely in the rearview, Cho spearheads the digitally inclined drama Searching from first-time director Aneesh Chaganty in a noble debut following a slew of short films.
Unlike the offshoot of found footage features capitalizing on the omnipresence of technology in the 2010s — Paranormal Activity 4, the Unfriended films — this movie far exceeds the cheap gimmicks of cyber-minded horror. The facets of its visual storytelling format are not only effective but also integral to the exceptional energy of this brisk, pulpy thriller.
Chaganty's work might have easily settled for exploiting Gen Z's ability to exist separate from their actual selves through the instant connectivity of social media and postmodern technology. But this is not a simple tale of a dad coming to grips with the taciturn mischief of his missing teenage daughter — Searching is a devilishly twisty, classically constructed mystery chock full of red herrings and rejuvenating revelations. It won’t quite blow your mind but this cybernated paperback novel of sorts is persistently and appropriately intriguing.
With Apple accessories abound, the blatant product placement is sure to be annoying if not distracting if the powerhouse brand isn't your tech go-to. Still, Searching's optic content isn't just logos and internet browsing — the taut editing interlinks desktop displays with FaceTime, security camera footage and television broadcasts to avoid any meandering one might expect from so modest a premise and framework. The scoring by Torin Borrowdale is also an understated asset, humming with morose piano melodies and propulsive electronic clicks — the slinking compositions are able to turn something as mundane as password verification into an absorbing process.
The film has a little too much to explain by its conclusion but Searching barely falters on its path to eagerly entertain, and Chaganty has little trouble in quietly hitting every emotional mark along the way.
The Little Stranger briefing
2 (out of 4)
Lenny Abrahamson’s last film Room was one of the highlights of cinema in 2015 — perfectly performed, emotionally harrowing and cathartic both as a profound drama and a breathtaking thriller. Reuniting with Domhnall Gleeson four years following Frank, Abramson's latest The Little Stranger is afflicted with quite the identity crisis.
Though not an outright tonal blunder, The Little Stranger has no gauge on its genre. Originating with Sarah Waters' celebrated 2009 novel and continuing to the adapted screenplay by Lucinda Coxon, the eventual materialization cycles precariously between frights and melodrama. The dissonant film is a middling, stuffy comedown following Abrahamson's brush with Oscar prestige three years prior, largely owed to Brie Larson's revered lead performance.
From the vantage of direction, The Little Stranger is esthetic and elegant — the cinematography switches up many times in a given scene — wide angle, soft focus, handheld and everything in between keeps the film clear of lethargy on the visual frontier. Where The Little Stranger suffers is in its severe shortage of narrative momentum — I’m all for well-developed central figures at the expense of structure or action, but there’s scarcely any plot outside of the stale romance of Gleeson's Dr. Faraday and Ruth Wilson’s Caroline Ayres justifying the inflated runtime.
The cloak of horror the film bestows upon itself is the primary detriment. The sour courtship of our main characters is prudently presented but the jolts of Gothic dread in ghostly jump scares — needlessly provided after every 30 minutes of dreary drama — aren't remotely warranted even with a centuries-old British mansion as the major locale. Either commit to angry spirits of dead relatives or tell a forlorn tale of a forced, wearied love affair; the textured gloom of The Little Stranger could aid either choice. Perhaps this storytelling divide works appropriately in the source material but the discordant elements are incongruous when translated here.
The supporting cast (chiefly Charlotte Rampling and Will Poulter) settles into the weathered period ambiance and dialects. But whereas Wilson's blunt charisma is endearing, Gleeson's distant, impersonal nature as the subdued leading man is as underdeveloped here as the typically typecast roles of his past. The characters themselves still bewitch us far more than the story, which ends with an unforgivable shrug. Just as it flopped at the box office, The Little Stranger will suitably remain unknown.
Lenny Abrahamson’s last film Room was one of the highlights of cinema in 2015 — perfectly performed, emotionally harrowing and cathartic both as a profound drama and a breathtaking thriller. Reuniting with Domhnall Gleeson four years following Frank, Abramson's latest The Little Stranger is afflicted with quite the identity crisis.
Though not an outright tonal blunder, The Little Stranger has no gauge on its genre. Originating with Sarah Waters' celebrated 2009 novel and continuing to the adapted screenplay by Lucinda Coxon, the eventual materialization cycles precariously between frights and melodrama. The dissonant film is a middling, stuffy comedown following Abrahamson's brush with Oscar prestige three years prior, largely owed to Brie Larson's revered lead performance.
From the vantage of direction, The Little Stranger is esthetic and elegant — the cinematography switches up many times in a given scene — wide angle, soft focus, handheld and everything in between keeps the film clear of lethargy on the visual frontier. Where The Little Stranger suffers is in its severe shortage of narrative momentum — I’m all for well-developed central figures at the expense of structure or action, but there’s scarcely any plot outside of the stale romance of Gleeson's Dr. Faraday and Ruth Wilson’s Caroline Ayres justifying the inflated runtime.
The cloak of horror the film bestows upon itself is the primary detriment. The sour courtship of our main characters is prudently presented but the jolts of Gothic dread in ghostly jump scares — needlessly provided after every 30 minutes of dreary drama — aren't remotely warranted even with a centuries-old British mansion as the major locale. Either commit to angry spirits of dead relatives or tell a forlorn tale of a forced, wearied love affair; the textured gloom of The Little Stranger could aid either choice. Perhaps this storytelling divide works appropriately in the source material but the discordant elements are incongruous when translated here.
The supporting cast (chiefly Charlotte Rampling and Will Poulter) settles into the weathered period ambiance and dialects. But whereas Wilson's blunt charisma is endearing, Gleeson's distant, impersonal nature as the subdued leading man is as underdeveloped here as the typically typecast roles of his past. The characters themselves still bewitch us far more than the story, which ends with an unforgivable shrug. Just as it flopped at the box office, The Little Stranger will suitably remain unknown.
Slender Man briefing
1 (out of 4)
Even as the most famous of creepypastas, responsible for generating a wealth of internet-generated lore and mythology, it's difficult to declare Slender Man worthy of a movie. Nevertheless, arriving several years too late, this feature resembles nothing even close to a serious effort to spawn a new horror icon.
Whether considering the online culture that turned the faceless suited stalker into a online legend, a real-life 2014 incident wherein two Wisconsin teens endeavored to sacrifice their peer to Slender Man or a woods-wandering PC game, there was at least something worth weaving into a film adaptation of the ambiguous, haunting figure. Nonetheless the ambivalent character and its origins eventually equated to 90 minutes of deplorable detritus.
To call Slender Man clichéd is a slight to the tradition of tropes. There isn’t a solitary instant that hasn’t been done and reworked countless times before. The film's only hint of value as horror is in brief, mildly diverting hallucination sequences. Slender Man is also shot on shit-o-vision or some similar lens, where even daytime shots are so incomprehensibly murky you’ll have to regularly squint just to distinguish what's happening. Our teenage collective consists of blank slates led by Joey King of The Conjuring (an overrated horror film deserving of nearly as much criticism for securing the viability of The Nun 2, Lord save us) and the uniformly derided Wish Upon.
The actual attempts at eeriness or spooks — though they do not lean as hard on jump scares the worst of the worst — are weak bordering on entirely absent. Unresolved storylines, a sparse, illegible plot and a pathetic establishment of rules and background folklore serve only to secure Slender Man as instantly forgettable and torturously trite. The neutered original cut offers an aggressively safe PG-13 rating just to make sure this needless film's existence is even more irrelevant and insulting.
Even as the most famous of creepypastas, responsible for generating a wealth of internet-generated lore and mythology, it's difficult to declare Slender Man worthy of a movie. Nevertheless, arriving several years too late, this feature resembles nothing even close to a serious effort to spawn a new horror icon.
Whether considering the online culture that turned the faceless suited stalker into a online legend, a real-life 2014 incident wherein two Wisconsin teens endeavored to sacrifice their peer to Slender Man or a woods-wandering PC game, there was at least something worth weaving into a film adaptation of the ambiguous, haunting figure. Nonetheless the ambivalent character and its origins eventually equated to 90 minutes of deplorable detritus.
To call Slender Man clichéd is a slight to the tradition of tropes. There isn’t a solitary instant that hasn’t been done and reworked countless times before. The film's only hint of value as horror is in brief, mildly diverting hallucination sequences. Slender Man is also shot on shit-o-vision or some similar lens, where even daytime shots are so incomprehensibly murky you’ll have to regularly squint just to distinguish what's happening. Our teenage collective consists of blank slates led by Joey King of The Conjuring (an overrated horror film deserving of nearly as much criticism for securing the viability of The Nun 2, Lord save us) and the uniformly derided Wish Upon.
The actual attempts at eeriness or spooks — though they do not lean as hard on jump scares the worst of the worst — are weak bordering on entirely absent. Unresolved storylines, a sparse, illegible plot and a pathetic establishment of rules and background folklore serve only to secure Slender Man as instantly forgettable and torturously trite. The neutered original cut offers an aggressively safe PG-13 rating just to make sure this needless film's existence is even more irrelevant and insulting.
Eighth Grade briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
Bo Burnham ascended from bedroom-dwelling YouTube jokester to the most original voice in modern stand-up in what seems like no time at all. His triptych of comedy specials (Words Words Words, what. and Make Happy) is a tremendous trilogy of shrewd intellectual comedy and his old teenage raps still hold up pretty well too.
That prodigious level of clout behind Burnham's name is what makes Eighth Grade, his first cinematic effort, so perplexing. A fairly straightforward coming-of-age story about a 13-year-old girl in 2017 seems just a smidge beyond his capacity to communicate honestly, but while there is little authorship that screams Burnham’s idiosyncratic brand of dense wordplay and cynical, postmodern edge, as a fresh-faced director he has engineered one of the most uncomfortable and strangely thrilling debuts of the decade.
Lead Elsie Fisher is, like most of the cast, a non-actor and you can’t help but appreciate the candor in which the performances play out as Burnham’s script is recited. Very few directors or writers would opt for as much blemished naturalism in the delivery of dialogue, especially when it comes to teenagers. Every hiccup, stutter, stammer, faltering and vocal imperfection is maintained, just like in real life. This is an acne and all portrayal of the inconvenient cusp of young adulthood, and Eighth Grade manifests truths as universally profound as they are blisteringly awkward and at times piercingly painful.
Innumerable movies have explored themes on pubescent individuality and identity, but they seem like stilted bunk next to the way Burnham — a stalwart critic of social media — has commented on self-image in the digital age. I can see most audience members over 30 finding the post-millennial references and petty middle school problems difficult to relate to, but Eighth Grade is fundamentally about the suffocating effect of untamable social anxiety and how our own inability to truly know ourselves — let alone express this uncanny nebulousness — keeps our ultimate potential just out of reach. In the era of Snapchat, Instagram and vloggers, the space between our projected personality and our actual likeness has become unrecognizably obscured.
Burnham unrelentingly picks away at the life or death stakes of girls making their way through grade-school adolescence, parting from their innocence piece by piece, willingly or not. There's no indie gloss here like in The Edge of Seventeen or The Diary of a Teenage Girl — Eighth Grade's unflinching veracity already puts it in the leagues of the genre's cult classics like Welcome to the Dollhouse.
Anna Meredith's dramatically overcharged electronic score enhances Burnham's nimble accuracy on the subject of social unease. Featuring moment after moment of cringe-inducing realness, the film is like a suspended panic attack punctuated by both unexpected and primitive examples of embarrassment and elation. Not since Synecdoche, New York have I seen comedy and drama so thoroughly interwoven or some of the most trivial pangs of life illuminated with such authenticity. However Bo's goals are the inverse of Kaufman's seismic ambition — Eighth Grade is instead brimming with introspective, infinitesimal truths.
Bo Burnham ascended from bedroom-dwelling YouTube jokester to the most original voice in modern stand-up in what seems like no time at all. His triptych of comedy specials (Words Words Words, what. and Make Happy) is a tremendous trilogy of shrewd intellectual comedy and his old teenage raps still hold up pretty well too.
That prodigious level of clout behind Burnham's name is what makes Eighth Grade, his first cinematic effort, so perplexing. A fairly straightforward coming-of-age story about a 13-year-old girl in 2017 seems just a smidge beyond his capacity to communicate honestly, but while there is little authorship that screams Burnham’s idiosyncratic brand of dense wordplay and cynical, postmodern edge, as a fresh-faced director he has engineered one of the most uncomfortable and strangely thrilling debuts of the decade.
Lead Elsie Fisher is, like most of the cast, a non-actor and you can’t help but appreciate the candor in which the performances play out as Burnham’s script is recited. Very few directors or writers would opt for as much blemished naturalism in the delivery of dialogue, especially when it comes to teenagers. Every hiccup, stutter, stammer, faltering and vocal imperfection is maintained, just like in real life. This is an acne and all portrayal of the inconvenient cusp of young adulthood, and Eighth Grade manifests truths as universally profound as they are blisteringly awkward and at times piercingly painful.
Innumerable movies have explored themes on pubescent individuality and identity, but they seem like stilted bunk next to the way Burnham — a stalwart critic of social media — has commented on self-image in the digital age. I can see most audience members over 30 finding the post-millennial references and petty middle school problems difficult to relate to, but Eighth Grade is fundamentally about the suffocating effect of untamable social anxiety and how our own inability to truly know ourselves — let alone express this uncanny nebulousness — keeps our ultimate potential just out of reach. In the era of Snapchat, Instagram and vloggers, the space between our projected personality and our actual likeness has become unrecognizably obscured.
Burnham unrelentingly picks away at the life or death stakes of girls making their way through grade-school adolescence, parting from their innocence piece by piece, willingly or not. There's no indie gloss here like in The Edge of Seventeen or The Diary of a Teenage Girl — Eighth Grade's unflinching veracity already puts it in the leagues of the genre's cult classics like Welcome to the Dollhouse.
Anna Meredith's dramatically overcharged electronic score enhances Burnham's nimble accuracy on the subject of social unease. Featuring moment after moment of cringe-inducing realness, the film is like a suspended panic attack punctuated by both unexpected and primitive examples of embarrassment and elation. Not since Synecdoche, New York have I seen comedy and drama so thoroughly interwoven or some of the most trivial pangs of life illuminated with such authenticity. However Bo's goals are the inverse of Kaufman's seismic ambition — Eighth Grade is instead brimming with introspective, infinitesimal truths.
Christopher Robin briefing
2 ½ (out of 4)
The Hundred Acre Wood has never before been witnessed in real life but its true splendor may belong solely to animated incarnations of A. A. Milne's creations. In regard to Pooh and company, the augmented realism and pathos Christopher Robin longs to exhibit is undone by its staunch adherence to the limitations of family fare.
Director Marc Forster — a man capable of spinning compulsively watchable action movies out of big-budget disasters in waiting (Quantum of Solace, World War Z) — attempts to recapture the Oscar-lite poignancy of his analogous and superior 2004 film Finding Neverland in Disney's first live action Winnie-the-Pooh film and most recent twist on the property since 2011's respectable feature. Christopher Robin positions itself to comment both on the importance of domesticity (shocker) as well as how we ultimately suppress our childhood impulses in the wake of the professional concerns of adulthood. But the inherent modesty of the film's themes, which sidesteps sincere maturity at nearly every turn, can’t rise above simply criticizing work-obsession and championing the most obvious family values.
Hayley Atwell and Ewan McGregor are lovely individually and play husband and wife well, but their charms only carry the film's insufficient sentiments so far. The Up-like gravity of Christopher Robin's opening credits montage — chronicling Robin's tragic childhood through his major romance and service in WWII — is more emotionally impactful than the sum of the remainder of the film. Thankfully Atwell's character didn’t fall for Steve Rogers during the overseas interim.
The slapstick is a few degrees too silly set against handsome period aspects, though it will offer kiddies more beneficial entertainment than any average item from Illumination. There’s no denying how short Christopher Robin is on worthwhile morals and wisdom — I wholeheartedly agree that nothing often leads to the very best of something, it's just not really the case here.
The Hundred Acre Wood has never before been witnessed in real life but its true splendor may belong solely to animated incarnations of A. A. Milne's creations. In regard to Pooh and company, the augmented realism and pathos Christopher Robin longs to exhibit is undone by its staunch adherence to the limitations of family fare.
Director Marc Forster — a man capable of spinning compulsively watchable action movies out of big-budget disasters in waiting (Quantum of Solace, World War Z) — attempts to recapture the Oscar-lite poignancy of his analogous and superior 2004 film Finding Neverland in Disney's first live action Winnie-the-Pooh film and most recent twist on the property since 2011's respectable feature. Christopher Robin positions itself to comment both on the importance of domesticity (shocker) as well as how we ultimately suppress our childhood impulses in the wake of the professional concerns of adulthood. But the inherent modesty of the film's themes, which sidesteps sincere maturity at nearly every turn, can’t rise above simply criticizing work-obsession and championing the most obvious family values.
Hayley Atwell and Ewan McGregor are lovely individually and play husband and wife well, but their charms only carry the film's insufficient sentiments so far. The Up-like gravity of Christopher Robin's opening credits montage — chronicling Robin's tragic childhood through his major romance and service in WWII — is more emotionally impactful than the sum of the remainder of the film. Thankfully Atwell's character didn’t fall for Steve Rogers during the overseas interim.
The slapstick is a few degrees too silly set against handsome period aspects, though it will offer kiddies more beneficial entertainment than any average item from Illumination. There’s no denying how short Christopher Robin is on worthwhile morals and wisdom — I wholeheartedly agree that nothing often leads to the very best of something, it's just not really the case here.
Teen Titans Go! To the Movies briefing
2 ½ (out of 4)
The relentless zaniness of the kids show Teen Titans Go! is its greatest advantage and biggest detriment. As such I didn’t expect much less than frenzied, moderately clever mayhem from a theatrical iteration of Cartoon Network’s popular reworking of their former bread and butter.
The original Teen Titans program happily married serial comic book storytelling with anime-inspired style in the most delightful show a tween could ask for. Despite the fact that these newer, more crudely drawn Titans are aimed at a decidedly younger audience, the infantile renderings retain some level of their individual charm, albeit with minimal sincerity. I'll take it over the 'mature' alternative in DC's upcoming live action television version, which should be at least twice as offensive.
My gripes with Teen Titans Go! To the Movies aren’t any different than the problems I have with the show itself. Robin is an insecure egomaniac, Raven is uncharacteristically chummy and Beast Boy’s new voicing is its own special breed of irritating. But even with very cost-efficient animation, the film provides waves of amusement across a sizable spectrum from fart jokes to pleasantly wily exercises of its openly meta premise. The sequence in which the Titans time travel to disrupt famous superhero origin stories is a winning, funny detour. The film's wisest move is finally giving Nicolas Cage an excuse to play Superman in some manner by way of a contribution to the voice cast.
Both the show and the film are capable of erratic creativity and outlandish stupidity. If Teen Titans Go! To the Movies didn't reverently poke fun at the current superhero climate more often than the significantly self-aware Deadpool 2 did earlier this summer, then this slight kids flick would have deserved to debut on the idiot box.
The relentless zaniness of the kids show Teen Titans Go! is its greatest advantage and biggest detriment. As such I didn’t expect much less than frenzied, moderately clever mayhem from a theatrical iteration of Cartoon Network’s popular reworking of their former bread and butter.
The original Teen Titans program happily married serial comic book storytelling with anime-inspired style in the most delightful show a tween could ask for. Despite the fact that these newer, more crudely drawn Titans are aimed at a decidedly younger audience, the infantile renderings retain some level of their individual charm, albeit with minimal sincerity. I'll take it over the 'mature' alternative in DC's upcoming live action television version, which should be at least twice as offensive.
My gripes with Teen Titans Go! To the Movies aren’t any different than the problems I have with the show itself. Robin is an insecure egomaniac, Raven is uncharacteristically chummy and Beast Boy’s new voicing is its own special breed of irritating. But even with very cost-efficient animation, the film provides waves of amusement across a sizable spectrum from fart jokes to pleasantly wily exercises of its openly meta premise. The sequence in which the Titans time travel to disrupt famous superhero origin stories is a winning, funny detour. The film's wisest move is finally giving Nicolas Cage an excuse to play Superman in some manner by way of a contribution to the voice cast.
Both the show and the film are capable of erratic creativity and outlandish stupidity. If Teen Titans Go! To the Movies didn't reverently poke fun at the current superhero climate more often than the significantly self-aware Deadpool 2 did earlier this summer, then this slight kids flick would have deserved to debut on the idiot box.
Mission: Impossible - Fallout briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
How is Cruise still grasping at blockbuster greatness 22 years after he began producing his own movies? How much of his determination to deliver authentic spectacle is driven by the eagerness to give an audience a rush and how much is dictated by his ego needing a good scratch?
Regardless of any explanation, I defy you to point out a major movie star more willing to lay his body on the line for your moviegoing satisfaction. The Mission: Impossible series has legitimized itself many times over as the action spy brand of the current decade, especially after Brad Bird scraped the genre's highest highs in 2011 with Ghost Protocol. 2015's Rogue Nation proved an admirable follow-up and director Christopher McQuarrie, the only filmmaker to return as commander of another Mission, amplifies all of his respectable accomplishments made in that fifth film.
The first act of Fallout is literally everything you could want from Cruise, action movies and mainstream entertainment. The opening sting is a helluva twist; the stunt work in the halo jump is gripping. The following portion outdoes Bourne at hand-to-hand combat with a series-best fight sequence just before officially outclassing Bond in an atmospheric speakeasy segment featuring Vanessa Kirby as the White Widow, the lovely offspring of arms dealer Max from the original 1996 film.
The second act is all plot, chases and twists. There may be one gotcha moment too many but the tension in the extensive midsection becomes palpable at multiple moments, oddly earned by the tasteful use of dream sequences. And while Mission: Impossible flicks usually peter out by Act Three, the helicopter-based climax condenses the usual convolution down to a basic ticking clock scenario, coalescing in the most impressive finale the franchise has known. In terms of pure action pageantry, Fallout is copiously stuffed with definitive highlight reel moments. Even though it's the truest sequel to date, this movie could easily be enjoyed without any previous M:I knowledge despite connections to each of its five predecessors in either story or homage.
McQuarrie shakes things up as much as possible for those expecting the customary shift in auteurs — which included Brian De Palma, John Woo, J. J. Abrams and the aforementioned Bird — while embellishing classic habits of both the franchise and spy fare by pushing them to their extremes. Lorne Balfe, right hand man to Hans Zimmer, would make his mentor blush with his stormy, thunderous score and Rob Hardy's muted, supple cinematography is a sensible tonal deviation from Robert Elswit's clean precision. It's all a tireless effort to keep the series aging like the finest wine or like Cruise himself, who at 56 still sells Ethan Hunt's unequivocal gravity. McQuarrie implements serious stakes and an epic runtime and is still able to savor the fun, thrills and gadgetry Mission is known for.
Cruise might have two more movies in him if he's up to it but his supporting cast will likely never be stronger. Rebecca Ferguson, Alec Baldwin and Sean Harris all develop the parts they played so well in Rogue Nation while newbies Kirby, Henry Cavill and Angela Bassett keep things energized whenever present. The shtick of Simon Pegg and Ving Rhames is wearing thin — you don't need two computer guys — but the former's comic relief is always integral while the latter should have been permanently seated on the sidelines two installments ago.
As a fan of Cruise and the Mission: Impossible films in general, I could sing the praises of Fallout all day. Every one of these films is very stupid when you break them down by logic but that joyless exercise is left to sheltered YouTube snobs. These films (even II in its own parodic way) are lavishly, emphatically entertaining. Maybe it's just my taste, but what summer crowds crave from this genre is practical exhibitionism through substantial, awe-inspiring action, all based in espionage, mystery and a relatively plausible reality.
Such overwhelming grandiosity may leave you nostalgic for the noir-soaked prudence of the initial film but Fallout at the very least rivals, if not surpasses, the best of this set-piece-laden spy franchise.
How is Cruise still grasping at blockbuster greatness 22 years after he began producing his own movies? How much of his determination to deliver authentic spectacle is driven by the eagerness to give an audience a rush and how much is dictated by his ego needing a good scratch?
Regardless of any explanation, I defy you to point out a major movie star more willing to lay his body on the line for your moviegoing satisfaction. The Mission: Impossible series has legitimized itself many times over as the action spy brand of the current decade, especially after Brad Bird scraped the genre's highest highs in 2011 with Ghost Protocol. 2015's Rogue Nation proved an admirable follow-up and director Christopher McQuarrie, the only filmmaker to return as commander of another Mission, amplifies all of his respectable accomplishments made in that fifth film.
The first act of Fallout is literally everything you could want from Cruise, action movies and mainstream entertainment. The opening sting is a helluva twist; the stunt work in the halo jump is gripping. The following portion outdoes Bourne at hand-to-hand combat with a series-best fight sequence just before officially outclassing Bond in an atmospheric speakeasy segment featuring Vanessa Kirby as the White Widow, the lovely offspring of arms dealer Max from the original 1996 film.
The second act is all plot, chases and twists. There may be one gotcha moment too many but the tension in the extensive midsection becomes palpable at multiple moments, oddly earned by the tasteful use of dream sequences. And while Mission: Impossible flicks usually peter out by Act Three, the helicopter-based climax condenses the usual convolution down to a basic ticking clock scenario, coalescing in the most impressive finale the franchise has known. In terms of pure action pageantry, Fallout is copiously stuffed with definitive highlight reel moments. Even though it's the truest sequel to date, this movie could easily be enjoyed without any previous M:I knowledge despite connections to each of its five predecessors in either story or homage.
McQuarrie shakes things up as much as possible for those expecting the customary shift in auteurs — which included Brian De Palma, John Woo, J. J. Abrams and the aforementioned Bird — while embellishing classic habits of both the franchise and spy fare by pushing them to their extremes. Lorne Balfe, right hand man to Hans Zimmer, would make his mentor blush with his stormy, thunderous score and Rob Hardy's muted, supple cinematography is a sensible tonal deviation from Robert Elswit's clean precision. It's all a tireless effort to keep the series aging like the finest wine or like Cruise himself, who at 56 still sells Ethan Hunt's unequivocal gravity. McQuarrie implements serious stakes and an epic runtime and is still able to savor the fun, thrills and gadgetry Mission is known for.
Cruise might have two more movies in him if he's up to it but his supporting cast will likely never be stronger. Rebecca Ferguson, Alec Baldwin and Sean Harris all develop the parts they played so well in Rogue Nation while newbies Kirby, Henry Cavill and Angela Bassett keep things energized whenever present. The shtick of Simon Pegg and Ving Rhames is wearing thin — you don't need two computer guys — but the former's comic relief is always integral while the latter should have been permanently seated on the sidelines two installments ago.
As a fan of Cruise and the Mission: Impossible films in general, I could sing the praises of Fallout all day. Every one of these films is very stupid when you break them down by logic but that joyless exercise is left to sheltered YouTube snobs. These films (even II in its own parodic way) are lavishly, emphatically entertaining. Maybe it's just my taste, but what summer crowds crave from this genre is practical exhibitionism through substantial, awe-inspiring action, all based in espionage, mystery and a relatively plausible reality.
Such overwhelming grandiosity may leave you nostalgic for the noir-soaked prudence of the initial film but Fallout at the very least rivals, if not surpasses, the best of this set-piece-laden spy franchise.
Sorry to Bother You briefing
3 (out of 4)
Boots Riley's auspicious debut has been stirring up conversation since it debuted at Sundance earlier this year — no doubt Sorry to Bother You merits its spot on the lips of indie filmmaking acolytes for numerous reasons.
Much to the credit of Riley — communist and former rapper/hip hop producer of his music collective The Coup — the messages entrenched in his first film function as an exhaustive rant on the current orientation of cultural consumption, the pressing problems of capitalism, the façade of corporate America and the mechanics of racial adaptation. But it's almost as if, knowing his scathing lampoon would need the comic beats of mainstream flicks in order to appeal to a wider audience, Boots sacrificed substantiating his many theses in order to awkwardly pause for a few laughs.
It's disappointing because appealing to the whims of commercial interest is the exact slippery slope the film goes to great lengths to illustrate. Riley's own carefully constructed themes and ingenious satire throughout Sorry to Bother You is unnecessarily hampered for the sake of satisfying the most feeble-minded moviegoers. Despite these frustrating blemishes, the film is unapologetic, faultlessly entertaining and fortified with audacious cinematic showmanship.
The idea of our African-American main characters accessing their white voice to excel at telemarketing — a gimmick utilizing the timbres of Patton Oswalt and David Cross extremely well — leads down a narrative path recalling the subversive racial and social critiques of Get Out. Except in this case the horror elements cropping up in Sorry to Bother You confine the film into a stubborn quirkiness, weakening the otherwise potent ideology. But then again there's nothing too subtle about the film's strange cautionary tale — it really wouldn't make sense to underplay the film's near future dystopian sci-fi sociopolitical commentary. The Dirty Projectors' sonic contributions assist in elevating and complimenting the film's bizarre premise and jocular tone.
Lakeith Stanfield made excellent supporting turns in Short Term 12 and Jordan Peele's debut, and he remains an extraordinarily likable performer now as the unlikely protagonist Cash Green. Tessa Thompson is unfortunately typecast as the artistic girlfriend just as she was in Creed. Armie Hammer’s caricature of a cocaine-snorting CEO scumbag named Steve Lift, however, is something to behold and the sequence involving Cash's experience at Lift's surreal Eyes Wide Shut-inspired house party is loaded with delightfully absurd moments. I may have heard crickets during the most painfully obvious jokes but Riley's smartest satirical stabs had me dying.
Boots Riley's auspicious debut has been stirring up conversation since it debuted at Sundance earlier this year — no doubt Sorry to Bother You merits its spot on the lips of indie filmmaking acolytes for numerous reasons.
Much to the credit of Riley — communist and former rapper/hip hop producer of his music collective The Coup — the messages entrenched in his first film function as an exhaustive rant on the current orientation of cultural consumption, the pressing problems of capitalism, the façade of corporate America and the mechanics of racial adaptation. But it's almost as if, knowing his scathing lampoon would need the comic beats of mainstream flicks in order to appeal to a wider audience, Boots sacrificed substantiating his many theses in order to awkwardly pause for a few laughs.
It's disappointing because appealing to the whims of commercial interest is the exact slippery slope the film goes to great lengths to illustrate. Riley's own carefully constructed themes and ingenious satire throughout Sorry to Bother You is unnecessarily hampered for the sake of satisfying the most feeble-minded moviegoers. Despite these frustrating blemishes, the film is unapologetic, faultlessly entertaining and fortified with audacious cinematic showmanship.
The idea of our African-American main characters accessing their white voice to excel at telemarketing — a gimmick utilizing the timbres of Patton Oswalt and David Cross extremely well — leads down a narrative path recalling the subversive racial and social critiques of Get Out. Except in this case the horror elements cropping up in Sorry to Bother You confine the film into a stubborn quirkiness, weakening the otherwise potent ideology. But then again there's nothing too subtle about the film's strange cautionary tale — it really wouldn't make sense to underplay the film's near future dystopian sci-fi sociopolitical commentary. The Dirty Projectors' sonic contributions assist in elevating and complimenting the film's bizarre premise and jocular tone.
Lakeith Stanfield made excellent supporting turns in Short Term 12 and Jordan Peele's debut, and he remains an extraordinarily likable performer now as the unlikely protagonist Cash Green. Tessa Thompson is unfortunately typecast as the artistic girlfriend just as she was in Creed. Armie Hammer’s caricature of a cocaine-snorting CEO scumbag named Steve Lift, however, is something to behold and the sequence involving Cash's experience at Lift's surreal Eyes Wide Shut-inspired house party is loaded with delightfully absurd moments. I may have heard crickets during the most painfully obvious jokes but Riley's smartest satirical stabs had me dying.
Ant-Man and the Wasp briefing
2 ½ (out of 4)
When you churn out 20 interrelated superhero movies in 10 years ranging from mildly successful to insanely popular, you steadily earn a reputation. Marvel is synonymous with reliably distracting entertainment and they're just as famous for minimizing risks and straddling the status quo. 2015’s Ant-Man was the MCU's biggest box office gamble in which they conservatively shelled out the smallest budget. Following the film's success, and especially with the series reaching a baffling crescendo in profits thanks to this year’s Black Panther and Avenger: Infinity War, I expected something a little more substantial from Ant-Man and the Wasp.
Not that this newest recess in the MCU doesn’t serve up its own fun-size wallop of minor superhero amusement. Just like the first Ant-flick was a welcome comedown after Age of Ultron, this sequel serves as easygoing levity on the heels of heaviness in the third Avengers. Ant-Man and the Wasp is mathematically fast-paced and buoyant at its best — Paul Rudd, Michael Peña and newcomer Jimmy Woo carry the film through even the most pandering instances with their instinctive comic chops. Abby Ryder Fortson as little Cassie also always puts an adorable face on the humanity of Scott Lang's character.
The biggest disappointment is the film's marketing which spoils just about each and every one of the film's memorable moments for the sake of a good trailer — only some of the best bits of banter are theater exclusives. Save for Spider-Man: Homecoming and maybe the Guardians films, this is the most straightforward comedy we've seen from the series and for laughs alone Ant-Man and the Wasp is a good time even as hit and miss as it can be.
But with potential aplenty for inventive diversion from typical capeshit, the film is only so clever in finding cinematic uses for Pym's technology — there are countless cool sci-fi concepts at play but unfortunately nothing ever gets too weird or heady. How strange that Marvel's real risk-taking came from April's Avengers: Infinity War when there were two-dozen or so heroes to make room for. The individual, consequence-free additions to the MCU, like the superior one-offs Doctor Strange and Thor: Ragnarok, are often better for subscribing less to formula.
While Evangeline Lilly's Wasp is everything Ant-Man isn’t (she can fly without a bug nearby and is actually trained for combat) she envelopes the action single-handedly, upstaging our lead at every turn. Lang's regulator malfunctions throughout the entire film, leaving little time for many superheroics from our title character. Lilly is an excellent foil for Rudd, romantic or otherwise, but she spends so much of the movie suited up; the sentimental side of her quest to rescue mama Pym (Michelle Pfeiffer) from the quantum realm is superficial, convoluted and emotionally muffled, even though it was a key aspect of the last film.
Other than a relatively strong villain for the series — Ghost (Hannah John-Kamen) is not only a neat character to watch but also well motivated — Ant-Man and the Wasp is a decidedly mid-shelf Marvel flick.
When you churn out 20 interrelated superhero movies in 10 years ranging from mildly successful to insanely popular, you steadily earn a reputation. Marvel is synonymous with reliably distracting entertainment and they're just as famous for minimizing risks and straddling the status quo. 2015’s Ant-Man was the MCU's biggest box office gamble in which they conservatively shelled out the smallest budget. Following the film's success, and especially with the series reaching a baffling crescendo in profits thanks to this year’s Black Panther and Avenger: Infinity War, I expected something a little more substantial from Ant-Man and the Wasp.
Not that this newest recess in the MCU doesn’t serve up its own fun-size wallop of minor superhero amusement. Just like the first Ant-flick was a welcome comedown after Age of Ultron, this sequel serves as easygoing levity on the heels of heaviness in the third Avengers. Ant-Man and the Wasp is mathematically fast-paced and buoyant at its best — Paul Rudd, Michael Peña and newcomer Jimmy Woo carry the film through even the most pandering instances with their instinctive comic chops. Abby Ryder Fortson as little Cassie also always puts an adorable face on the humanity of Scott Lang's character.
The biggest disappointment is the film's marketing which spoils just about each and every one of the film's memorable moments for the sake of a good trailer — only some of the best bits of banter are theater exclusives. Save for Spider-Man: Homecoming and maybe the Guardians films, this is the most straightforward comedy we've seen from the series and for laughs alone Ant-Man and the Wasp is a good time even as hit and miss as it can be.
But with potential aplenty for inventive diversion from typical capeshit, the film is only so clever in finding cinematic uses for Pym's technology — there are countless cool sci-fi concepts at play but unfortunately nothing ever gets too weird or heady. How strange that Marvel's real risk-taking came from April's Avengers: Infinity War when there were two-dozen or so heroes to make room for. The individual, consequence-free additions to the MCU, like the superior one-offs Doctor Strange and Thor: Ragnarok, are often better for subscribing less to formula.
While Evangeline Lilly's Wasp is everything Ant-Man isn’t (she can fly without a bug nearby and is actually trained for combat) she envelopes the action single-handedly, upstaging our lead at every turn. Lang's regulator malfunctions throughout the entire film, leaving little time for many superheroics from our title character. Lilly is an excellent foil for Rudd, romantic or otherwise, but she spends so much of the movie suited up; the sentimental side of her quest to rescue mama Pym (Michelle Pfeiffer) from the quantum realm is superficial, convoluted and emotionally muffled, even though it was a key aspect of the last film.
Other than a relatively strong villain for the series — Ghost (Hannah John-Kamen) is not only a neat character to watch but also well motivated — Ant-Man and the Wasp is a decidedly mid-shelf Marvel flick.
Sicario: Day of the Soldado briefing
1 ½ (out of 4)
Of all the modestly successful original movies of recent years, why did Sicario get a sequel? Without Emily Blunt, Denis Villenueve and Roger Deakins, I checked out as soon as I heard it was in the works. Sure, one of the most talented screenwriters and burgeoning directors of the decade, Taylor Sheridan, penned the new film — his hand is still far from enough to deem Day of the Soldado anything besides yet another extraneous summer sequel. In an attempt to both emulate and ignore the murky ideologies and gloomy thrills of Villeneuve’s 2015 film, this self-defeating sequel transforms very real topics — terrorism, immigration, drug trafficking — into a vessel for hyper-masculine fantasy.
The first half of the film bears promise — Day of the Soldado has more room for Josh Brolin’s CIA officer Matt Graver and the characteristics beneath the sinister veneer he wore in the former film. Urged by the Secretary of Defense (Matthew Modine) to turn Mexican drug cartels against each other after several terrorist attacks, Graver and Benicio del Toro's hitman Alejandro Gillick team up to kidnap the daughter of a kingpin in order to incite ensuing violence, eliminating the need for further US involvement. Everything is vaguely exciting up to this point but once the risky endeavor requires oversight after the mission doesn't go according to plan, oh no our 'protagonists' can’t murder countless police officers without consequence.
Suffering from every strand of sequelitus, Day of the Soldado's symptoms include a pointless subtitle, a lacking narrative, rote dialogue and a standard upsurge in gunfire and explosions. The drama is drawn out but hardly earned — this film could’ve been trimmed by a minimum of 30 minutes and been improved many times over. The brutality of Sicario is expanded with thrice the amount of blood but it’s all so vacuous, just like the thin characterization of the film's two important younger characters.
The first film was a labyrinthine crime film depicting covert and ethically warped government operations but Sheridan’s new script inverts this premise, embracing nihilism as its own form of dour, trivial summer escapism. Moral grayness turns black and the hollowness of the whole affair becomes more apparent second by second of its insufferable final act. This Sicario sequel has all the tact and grace of an NCIS spin-off and the parting setup for a third film is hack writing at its finest.
Of all the modestly successful original movies of recent years, why did Sicario get a sequel? Without Emily Blunt, Denis Villenueve and Roger Deakins, I checked out as soon as I heard it was in the works. Sure, one of the most talented screenwriters and burgeoning directors of the decade, Taylor Sheridan, penned the new film — his hand is still far from enough to deem Day of the Soldado anything besides yet another extraneous summer sequel. In an attempt to both emulate and ignore the murky ideologies and gloomy thrills of Villeneuve’s 2015 film, this self-defeating sequel transforms very real topics — terrorism, immigration, drug trafficking — into a vessel for hyper-masculine fantasy.
The first half of the film bears promise — Day of the Soldado has more room for Josh Brolin’s CIA officer Matt Graver and the characteristics beneath the sinister veneer he wore in the former film. Urged by the Secretary of Defense (Matthew Modine) to turn Mexican drug cartels against each other after several terrorist attacks, Graver and Benicio del Toro's hitman Alejandro Gillick team up to kidnap the daughter of a kingpin in order to incite ensuing violence, eliminating the need for further US involvement. Everything is vaguely exciting up to this point but once the risky endeavor requires oversight after the mission doesn't go according to plan, oh no our 'protagonists' can’t murder countless police officers without consequence.
Suffering from every strand of sequelitus, Day of the Soldado's symptoms include a pointless subtitle, a lacking narrative, rote dialogue and a standard upsurge in gunfire and explosions. The drama is drawn out but hardly earned — this film could’ve been trimmed by a minimum of 30 minutes and been improved many times over. The brutality of Sicario is expanded with thrice the amount of blood but it’s all so vacuous, just like the thin characterization of the film's two important younger characters.
The first film was a labyrinthine crime film depicting covert and ethically warped government operations but Sheridan’s new script inverts this premise, embracing nihilism as its own form of dour, trivial summer escapism. Moral grayness turns black and the hollowness of the whole affair becomes more apparent second by second of its insufferable final act. This Sicario sequel has all the tact and grace of an NCIS spin-off and the parting setup for a third film is hack writing at its finest.
Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom briefing
2 ½ (out of 4)
It might come as a surprise (or perhaps no surprise at all) that Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom could be the best Jurassic Park sequel ever. Mind you, it's a low bar to clear. Just like the way this film's cynical predecessor Jurassic World imitated the original 1993 film, Fallen Kingdom follows the basic bullet points of The Lost World. But unlike Spielberg’s inciting blockbuster phenomenon, in the case of the 1997 successor there was so much room for improvement.
Our main characters Owen (Chris Pratt) and Claire (Bryce Dallas Howard) have been scrubbed of their single dimension of depth — now they have virtually no character at all, which is somehow superior since their personalities beforehand were so abhorrently trite. There are other minor betterments: instead of spoiled teenagers we get the least annoying of the franchise's obligatory youngsters (Isabella Sermon) and the mandatory smorgasbord of dino-chow villains of the corporate and military persuasion finds Rafe Spall and Toby Jones hamming it up. This offsets Claire's annoying pair of millennial animal rights employees Franklin and Zia (Justice Smith and Daniella Pineda).
No ensemble can match Sam Neill, Jeff Goldblum, Laura Dern and Richard Attenborough, but this new film is vying for second places in this and plenty other arenas. Fallen Kingdom can’t help but trod all too familiar ground like every Jurassic Park sequel that has come to pass, but the overarching structure here feels at least remotely divergent. A sensational roller-coaster ride of a first half almost flies by too fast to make way for a strictly horror-centered finale, more comfortable territory for director J. A. Bayona whose debut was The Orphanage. It's not much, but for once I’m fairly curious where this franchise is going and I haven't seen such a pulp-laden fusion of camp and terror from the series since the first film.
Of course there is inherent stupidity interwoven into the narrative but only because there has to be for these movies to exist. The dialogue is nothing but corn and the storytelling mostly revolves around not getting stomped or eaten, yet Bayona’s proficient direction, unlike the tasteless touches of Colin Trevorrow or Joe Johnston, lets you have your cake and devour it too. You don’t have to wait very long for what you came for and the expected beats play out in lively, well-shot set pieces.
The Lost World may have had Spielberg, cinematographer Janusz Kaminski and a very bored Jeff Goldblum on its side — the latter of whom here makes a rather pointless cameo bookending the story he takes no part in — but Fallen Kingdom has in spades what every other one of these dino-sequels has lacked: dependable B-movie pleasures. There’s no pointless meta-commentary on soft-rebooting, nostalgia or corporate sponsorship that choked the supposed thrills of Jurassic World three years ago. When your characters are less loathsome, it’s easier to feel danger when, for once, we aren’t secretly rooting for the raptors to end the movie ahead of schedule. Fallen Kingdom is about as dumb as movies get and just as fun too.
It might come as a surprise (or perhaps no surprise at all) that Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom could be the best Jurassic Park sequel ever. Mind you, it's a low bar to clear. Just like the way this film's cynical predecessor Jurassic World imitated the original 1993 film, Fallen Kingdom follows the basic bullet points of The Lost World. But unlike Spielberg’s inciting blockbuster phenomenon, in the case of the 1997 successor there was so much room for improvement.
Our main characters Owen (Chris Pratt) and Claire (Bryce Dallas Howard) have been scrubbed of their single dimension of depth — now they have virtually no character at all, which is somehow superior since their personalities beforehand were so abhorrently trite. There are other minor betterments: instead of spoiled teenagers we get the least annoying of the franchise's obligatory youngsters (Isabella Sermon) and the mandatory smorgasbord of dino-chow villains of the corporate and military persuasion finds Rafe Spall and Toby Jones hamming it up. This offsets Claire's annoying pair of millennial animal rights employees Franklin and Zia (Justice Smith and Daniella Pineda).
No ensemble can match Sam Neill, Jeff Goldblum, Laura Dern and Richard Attenborough, but this new film is vying for second places in this and plenty other arenas. Fallen Kingdom can’t help but trod all too familiar ground like every Jurassic Park sequel that has come to pass, but the overarching structure here feels at least remotely divergent. A sensational roller-coaster ride of a first half almost flies by too fast to make way for a strictly horror-centered finale, more comfortable territory for director J. A. Bayona whose debut was The Orphanage. It's not much, but for once I’m fairly curious where this franchise is going and I haven't seen such a pulp-laden fusion of camp and terror from the series since the first film.
Of course there is inherent stupidity interwoven into the narrative but only because there has to be for these movies to exist. The dialogue is nothing but corn and the storytelling mostly revolves around not getting stomped or eaten, yet Bayona’s proficient direction, unlike the tasteless touches of Colin Trevorrow or Joe Johnston, lets you have your cake and devour it too. You don’t have to wait very long for what you came for and the expected beats play out in lively, well-shot set pieces.
The Lost World may have had Spielberg, cinematographer Janusz Kaminski and a very bored Jeff Goldblum on its side — the latter of whom here makes a rather pointless cameo bookending the story he takes no part in — but Fallen Kingdom has in spades what every other one of these dino-sequels has lacked: dependable B-movie pleasures. There’s no pointless meta-commentary on soft-rebooting, nostalgia or corporate sponsorship that choked the supposed thrills of Jurassic World three years ago. When your characters are less loathsome, it’s easier to feel danger when, for once, we aren’t secretly rooting for the raptors to end the movie ahead of schedule. Fallen Kingdom is about as dumb as movies get and just as fun too.
Incredibles 2 briefing
3 (out of 4)
Brad Bird never really wanted to devise a sequel to his 2004 masterpiece. The worst thing you can say about Incredibles 2, just as a direct continuation of the former film, is that it could never, ever surpass the perfection of The Incredibles.
But it's still tough to ignore the new film's comparable shortcomings, few and facile as they are. Obeying the skeletal structure of the first film, Bird works slavishly to make sure Incredibles 2 is as distinctive and special as he can when he is able. His efforts are full of bracing creative decisions and on the whole Bird succeeds unflaggingly at handling the new and the familiar. The only thing placing this second Incredibles deep in the shadow of its predecessor is an unwillingness to match the vividly realized emotional maturity.
Even though it doesn't sacrifice universal appeal by catering to kids, Incredibles 2 plays it safe to its own detriment. But Bird makes the most of his unencumbered imagination and unlimited, Mouse-backed resources to produce a film that not only exceeds nearly every major release this summer, but also most Pixar films. It's easily the studio's best sequel next to any Toy Story continuation — the first hour is the most entertaining stretch of film I've seen all year. The action, scoring, voice over work, dialogue and editing, all terrific. As a true sequel to where we left off 14 years ago, this is the absolute best we were gonna get.
Yes, our new villain Screenslaver doesn’t top Syndrome, but reflexive social commentary on consumerism and our reliance on the escapism of superhero movies is at least nearly as thought-provoking as the original's contemplation on hero-worship and exceptionalism. One would be expected to nitpick every semblance of sequelitis if this was a careless cash-in like Finding Dory or Cars 3 — but anyone who knows better can register Bird's sound ingenuity and note his antipathy for everything that could have made Incredibles 2 ordinary.
For some, Jack-Jack squaring off against a brave raccoon made it all worth it. For me it was definitely the mesmerizing Elasticycle sequence.
Brad Bird never really wanted to devise a sequel to his 2004 masterpiece. The worst thing you can say about Incredibles 2, just as a direct continuation of the former film, is that it could never, ever surpass the perfection of The Incredibles.
But it's still tough to ignore the new film's comparable shortcomings, few and facile as they are. Obeying the skeletal structure of the first film, Bird works slavishly to make sure Incredibles 2 is as distinctive and special as he can when he is able. His efforts are full of bracing creative decisions and on the whole Bird succeeds unflaggingly at handling the new and the familiar. The only thing placing this second Incredibles deep in the shadow of its predecessor is an unwillingness to match the vividly realized emotional maturity.
Even though it doesn't sacrifice universal appeal by catering to kids, Incredibles 2 plays it safe to its own detriment. But Bird makes the most of his unencumbered imagination and unlimited, Mouse-backed resources to produce a film that not only exceeds nearly every major release this summer, but also most Pixar films. It's easily the studio's best sequel next to any Toy Story continuation — the first hour is the most entertaining stretch of film I've seen all year. The action, scoring, voice over work, dialogue and editing, all terrific. As a true sequel to where we left off 14 years ago, this is the absolute best we were gonna get.
Yes, our new villain Screenslaver doesn’t top Syndrome, but reflexive social commentary on consumerism and our reliance on the escapism of superhero movies is at least nearly as thought-provoking as the original's contemplation on hero-worship and exceptionalism. One would be expected to nitpick every semblance of sequelitis if this was a careless cash-in like Finding Dory or Cars 3 — but anyone who knows better can register Bird's sound ingenuity and note his antipathy for everything that could have made Incredibles 2 ordinary.
For some, Jack-Jack squaring off against a brave raccoon made it all worth it. For me it was definitely the mesmerizing Elasticycle sequence.
Ocean's Eight briefing
2 (out of 4)
If Steven Soderbergh never took the Ocean's trilogy past the point of breezy diversion, why should Gary Ross’s facsimile of the brand improve this all-female spinoff?
Not as torturous as Twelve but not anywhere near as beguiling as Eleven and Thirteen, Ocean's Eight boasts an impressive cast but the film's characters are underwritten, the plot is contrived even as the story remains painfully simplistic and, most disappointingly, the movie fails as some kind of serving of summer escapism. A knockoff of David Holmes' silk-smooth score and a few split screens doesn't compensate.
Sandra Bullock does a fine job as Sister Ocean, who just like Clooney's Danny before her is after a big score following extended incarceration. Some ladies in her heist squad are cool cats — Cate Blanchett and Helena Bonham Carter play roughly believable accomplices, but the likes of Mindy Kaling, Rihanna, and Awkwafina are resorted to their respective stereotypes like the hacker, the pickpocket, etc. At least this film's final act differs from previous entries, except that means the central heist is wrapped up in a bow by two-thirds the way in. Did I mention there’s no tension the entire film? Every sly twist or turn for inventiveness is squandered immediately and every hiccup in the plan is resolved far too quickly.
Even if Ocean's is as good a franchise as any to revamp with a female cast, I wish there was something more stylistically satiating to savor in Eight than watching attractive actresses hang out and do crafty things.
If Steven Soderbergh never took the Ocean's trilogy past the point of breezy diversion, why should Gary Ross’s facsimile of the brand improve this all-female spinoff?
Not as torturous as Twelve but not anywhere near as beguiling as Eleven and Thirteen, Ocean's Eight boasts an impressive cast but the film's characters are underwritten, the plot is contrived even as the story remains painfully simplistic and, most disappointingly, the movie fails as some kind of serving of summer escapism. A knockoff of David Holmes' silk-smooth score and a few split screens doesn't compensate.
Sandra Bullock does a fine job as Sister Ocean, who just like Clooney's Danny before her is after a big score following extended incarceration. Some ladies in her heist squad are cool cats — Cate Blanchett and Helena Bonham Carter play roughly believable accomplices, but the likes of Mindy Kaling, Rihanna, and Awkwafina are resorted to their respective stereotypes like the hacker, the pickpocket, etc. At least this film's final act differs from previous entries, except that means the central heist is wrapped up in a bow by two-thirds the way in. Did I mention there’s no tension the entire film? Every sly twist or turn for inventiveness is squandered immediately and every hiccup in the plan is resolved far too quickly.
Even if Ocean's is as good a franchise as any to revamp with a female cast, I wish there was something more stylistically satiating to savor in Eight than watching attractive actresses hang out and do crafty things.
Hereditary briefing
2 ½ (out of 4)
Though stocked with generic elements spanning the spectrum of horror — family tragedy, creepy kids, occultism and so forth — Hereditary's pulse-blended pastiche is deeply unnerving, particularly in key moments of harrowing drama and existential dread.
That said, for as bleak and freaky as the film gets, there’s no denying the movie's generous running time, overambitious stew of styles and unreasonably divisive ending keep this A24 horror joint closer to the disappointments of It Comes at Night and The Blackcoat's Daughter than something as exceptionally beautiful as The Witch. There’s undeniable artistry and intelligent filmmaking choices throughout, but Hereditary's deliberate slow-burn feels calculated rather than crucial. The film's final destination is so removed from its point of origin simply by cheating its way to demons and ghouls.
Still, Toni Collette is remarkable as ever and the film, especially in its first two thirds, is relentlessly creepy and littered with subtle details, but these assets never pan out to proper fruition. For as bonkers as the ending is, what's behind the curtain is pretty unimaginative. The finale falsely bewilders by trying too hard to synthesize reality with the supernatural. By far the best scenes of Hereditary are the tense domestic situations — the spooky stuff isn't nearly as unsettling or provocative.
As an ably executed horror hodgepodge, Hereditary is a work of middling mastery. But this dynamic film is a sure cut above the mainstream, jump-scare-laden treacle — Ari Aster shows unmatched promise but his budding gifts get the better of him.
Though stocked with generic elements spanning the spectrum of horror — family tragedy, creepy kids, occultism and so forth — Hereditary's pulse-blended pastiche is deeply unnerving, particularly in key moments of harrowing drama and existential dread.
That said, for as bleak and freaky as the film gets, there’s no denying the movie's generous running time, overambitious stew of styles and unreasonably divisive ending keep this A24 horror joint closer to the disappointments of It Comes at Night and The Blackcoat's Daughter than something as exceptionally beautiful as The Witch. There’s undeniable artistry and intelligent filmmaking choices throughout, but Hereditary's deliberate slow-burn feels calculated rather than crucial. The film's final destination is so removed from its point of origin simply by cheating its way to demons and ghouls.
Still, Toni Collette is remarkable as ever and the film, especially in its first two thirds, is relentlessly creepy and littered with subtle details, but these assets never pan out to proper fruition. For as bonkers as the ending is, what's behind the curtain is pretty unimaginative. The finale falsely bewilders by trying too hard to synthesize reality with the supernatural. By far the best scenes of Hereditary are the tense domestic situations — the spooky stuff isn't nearly as unsettling or provocative.
As an ably executed horror hodgepodge, Hereditary is a work of middling mastery. But this dynamic film is a sure cut above the mainstream, jump-scare-laden treacle — Ari Aster shows unmatched promise but his budding gifts get the better of him.
Upgrade briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
After beginning like some 80s B-movie with 21st century gloss, Upgrade becomes increasingly invigorating and remarkable as it progresses. Warping body horror, action thriller and dystopian sci-fi elements into its own low-budget cocktail, Upgrade is a quaint, thrifty, sophisticated conception, ironically worthy of standing toe-to-toe with many tentpole summer blockbusters.
Logan Marshall-Green shows off extraordinary range as everyman Grey, whose loving wife Asha (Melanie Vallejo) is killed in the same assault leaving him a quadriplegic. The future generation's hipster Tesla (Harrison Gilbertson as Eron Keen) offers Grey an exclusive chance to return to normalcy with STEM, a breakthrough all-enhancing AI counterpart chip. As a refined revision of templates laid down in Robocop and several similar cyborg and AI premises, Upgrade nimbly imagines a symbiosis of 2001's Hal 9000 and Dave, for example, where the precision of AI polishes and perfects everything connected to your nervous system. Autonomy and morality come into question in the film’s most cerebral moments and the brutal, elegantly shot action sequences are just as satisfying as jolly good ass-kicking.
Directed and written by Leigh Whannell (the man responsible for penning a good deal of the Saw and Insidious franchises), Upgrade is reminiscent of multiple films of its kind yet feels entirely authentic once it gets all its pieces in place and gears in motion. The fact that the crisp ending leaves the tantalizing possibility of an equally interesting sequel is just the cherry on top of a movie that's at least a few degrees more adroit than it initially appears. Upgrade is an appreciated and unexpected diamond in the rough.
After beginning like some 80s B-movie with 21st century gloss, Upgrade becomes increasingly invigorating and remarkable as it progresses. Warping body horror, action thriller and dystopian sci-fi elements into its own low-budget cocktail, Upgrade is a quaint, thrifty, sophisticated conception, ironically worthy of standing toe-to-toe with many tentpole summer blockbusters.
Logan Marshall-Green shows off extraordinary range as everyman Grey, whose loving wife Asha (Melanie Vallejo) is killed in the same assault leaving him a quadriplegic. The future generation's hipster Tesla (Harrison Gilbertson as Eron Keen) offers Grey an exclusive chance to return to normalcy with STEM, a breakthrough all-enhancing AI counterpart chip. As a refined revision of templates laid down in Robocop and several similar cyborg and AI premises, Upgrade nimbly imagines a symbiosis of 2001's Hal 9000 and Dave, for example, where the precision of AI polishes and perfects everything connected to your nervous system. Autonomy and morality come into question in the film’s most cerebral moments and the brutal, elegantly shot action sequences are just as satisfying as jolly good ass-kicking.
Directed and written by Leigh Whannell (the man responsible for penning a good deal of the Saw and Insidious franchises), Upgrade is reminiscent of multiple films of its kind yet feels entirely authentic once it gets all its pieces in place and gears in motion. The fact that the crisp ending leaves the tantalizing possibility of an equally interesting sequel is just the cherry on top of a movie that's at least a few degrees more adroit than it initially appears. Upgrade is an appreciated and unexpected diamond in the rough.
Solo: A Star Wars Story briefing
2 ½ (out of 4)
After the joylessness and drudgery of Disney's first Star Wars anthology film Rogue One, Solo, despite its implicit shortcomings, is the best kind of spin-off you could hope for, especially given a concept as misguided as a Han Solo prequel film. It probably shouldn’t exist but Solo jubilantly revels in its own limitations, expands the Star Wars universe where it can and most importantly delivers on the promise of these flicks to begin with — the pleasing escapism of space fantasy.
It could have been comic gold to watch Phil Lord and Chris Miller’s original borderline parody of the very idea of this movie, which got them excised from production mid-shoot. Ron Howard’s final film is too serious for its own good but it’s such a far cry from the tonal catastrophes of The Last Jedi and Rogue One — the orderly simplicity comes off as traditionally satisfying and refreshingly uncomplicated. Even Howard's murkier sense of levity leaves Solo feeling like a Star Wars film proper.
The script keeps the fan service on a leash for the most part and has plenty of time to showcase new elements of the galaxy and seize opportunities for imaginative production design. Vertical yachts, space marauders and black hole maelstroms all comfortably exist in this universe. Of course you know what else is awaiting you — Han meets Chewie, gambles with Lando, gets that blaster, shoots first, blah blah Kessel Run yada yada. It doesn’t really matter when you write a movie around snippets of dialogue that took up all of five minutes in the first two Star Wars films.
The plotting is fairly cliché and the discourse dances between dry and decent. The swashbuckling, backstabbings, femme fatale love interests, Western stylization and heist movie structure, however, amalgamate into its own blend of space adventure trappings that the Star Wars brand is synonymous with. Rogue One in particular could have used a little more Ocean’s Eleven and much less Saving Private Ryan in paving the groundwork for these anthology films. Just as J. J. Abrams will attempt to salvage Star Wars in Episode IX after the countless blunders of The Last Jedi, Solo is appropriate course correction for this portion of Disney's fledgling franchise. The box office numbers may not reflect this but that fault belongs to Kathleen Kennedy.
Even with two visions in direction and costly reshoots, this is no mash-up of Justice League or Fantastic Four-sized proportions. Everything plays out smoothly because the safe screenwriting works the homage into the story more than it places referential nostalgia checkpoints along the way. The last five minutes reek of studio hackery like the last "Star Wars Story" — an unwarranted cameo by Darth Maul is shoehorned in just to tease the possibility of future installments in the Solo series and perhaps an Obi-Wan film down the line. With no Jabba the Hut, Boba Fett or Greedo this time around, Solo doesn't blow its load and has room for Alden Ehrenreich's performance to develop over time.
Not to say Ehrenreich is a weak link like many predicted. From beginning to end his acting evolves from scrappy mimicry to the young actor inhabiting his own epitome of a classic character with arrogant swagger to spare — bewilderingly, by partway Ehrenreich carries the film single-handedly. The mild charm exuded by this otherwise mostly predictable film can be traced back to his surprisingly capable performance.
After the joylessness and drudgery of Disney's first Star Wars anthology film Rogue One, Solo, despite its implicit shortcomings, is the best kind of spin-off you could hope for, especially given a concept as misguided as a Han Solo prequel film. It probably shouldn’t exist but Solo jubilantly revels in its own limitations, expands the Star Wars universe where it can and most importantly delivers on the promise of these flicks to begin with — the pleasing escapism of space fantasy.
It could have been comic gold to watch Phil Lord and Chris Miller’s original borderline parody of the very idea of this movie, which got them excised from production mid-shoot. Ron Howard’s final film is too serious for its own good but it’s such a far cry from the tonal catastrophes of The Last Jedi and Rogue One — the orderly simplicity comes off as traditionally satisfying and refreshingly uncomplicated. Even Howard's murkier sense of levity leaves Solo feeling like a Star Wars film proper.
The script keeps the fan service on a leash for the most part and has plenty of time to showcase new elements of the galaxy and seize opportunities for imaginative production design. Vertical yachts, space marauders and black hole maelstroms all comfortably exist in this universe. Of course you know what else is awaiting you — Han meets Chewie, gambles with Lando, gets that blaster, shoots first, blah blah Kessel Run yada yada. It doesn’t really matter when you write a movie around snippets of dialogue that took up all of five minutes in the first two Star Wars films.
The plotting is fairly cliché and the discourse dances between dry and decent. The swashbuckling, backstabbings, femme fatale love interests, Western stylization and heist movie structure, however, amalgamate into its own blend of space adventure trappings that the Star Wars brand is synonymous with. Rogue One in particular could have used a little more Ocean’s Eleven and much less Saving Private Ryan in paving the groundwork for these anthology films. Just as J. J. Abrams will attempt to salvage Star Wars in Episode IX after the countless blunders of The Last Jedi, Solo is appropriate course correction for this portion of Disney's fledgling franchise. The box office numbers may not reflect this but that fault belongs to Kathleen Kennedy.
Even with two visions in direction and costly reshoots, this is no mash-up of Justice League or Fantastic Four-sized proportions. Everything plays out smoothly because the safe screenwriting works the homage into the story more than it places referential nostalgia checkpoints along the way. The last five minutes reek of studio hackery like the last "Star Wars Story" — an unwarranted cameo by Darth Maul is shoehorned in just to tease the possibility of future installments in the Solo series and perhaps an Obi-Wan film down the line. With no Jabba the Hut, Boba Fett or Greedo this time around, Solo doesn't blow its load and has room for Alden Ehrenreich's performance to develop over time.
Not to say Ehrenreich is a weak link like many predicted. From beginning to end his acting evolves from scrappy mimicry to the young actor inhabiting his own epitome of a classic character with arrogant swagger to spare — bewilderingly, by partway Ehrenreich carries the film single-handedly. The mild charm exuded by this otherwise mostly predictable film can be traced back to his surprisingly capable performance.
Deadpool 2 briefing
3 (out of 4)
The original Deadpool was the highest grossing X-Men film ever and no one saw it coming. Apart from three Bryan Singer films (the two originals and Days of Future Past) and last year’s Logan, 20th Century Fox’s portion of Marvel properties hasn’t made a tremendous imprint on the modern cultural phenomenon of superhero films, especially with Disney further monopolizing the box office calendar year by year.
Yet somehow Ryan Reynolds spewing sarcasm in red spandex tapped right into the domestic zeitgeist. The result was middling, with humor spanning sharp wit and the lowliest, most smug self-awareness you’d see in any given Seth MacFarlane joint. But we got a decent origin story, some time for smaller X-Men characters and an accurate if overrated reflection of our popular interests. Luckily the sequel improves upon just about everything. With a director of considerable style at the command — David Leitch, long-time second unit director, stunt coordinator extraordinaire and the guy behind the kicked asses of John Wick (partly) and Atomic Blonde — working with a fat budget, smart casting, a good villain and an alright story just for kicks, Deadpool 2 surpasses its predecessor with ease.
Stakes are set pretty fast when Wade Wilson's fiancée Vanessa (Morena Baccarin) bites it in the opening scene. Embracing emotional underpinnings akin to the first Deadpool, this sequel trades a love story for family film tropes. Wade seeks redemption in an attempt to correct flame-handed Russell Collins (Hunt for the Wilderpeople star and New Zealand treasure Julian Dennison) down a better path in which Cable (Josh Brolin), a time-traveling super soldier, won't have to murder the young boy in order to save his family who will eventually be killed by his future fiery fists. Brolin's turn here marks the distinguished actor's second Marvel villain in a month — along with the universe-toppling Thanos in Infinity War — as he brings another sympathetic bad guy to life. New faces like the super-fortunate Domino (Zazie Beetz) are welcome additions to the X-universe.
In spite of the blockbuster augmentations and a thicker runtime, Deadpool 2 still appears quaint, hand-made and audacious. The jokes are mercifully less abrasive — even with a handful too many outdated references the metatextual elements are more subtle and satiating than round one of the R-rated antihero antics. Leitch's hand in the fight sequences is unswerving and up to his own standards — the major second act set piece is both boisterous and inventively thrilling.
Like 22 Jump Street, as a meta-sequel Deadpool 2 is as inspired as you can get by modifying and renovating all the ingredients working so well in the former film. The opening credits sequence parodying Bond and the Marvel-esque post-credit stabs are some of the film's funniest segments. The film in between has plenty to chortle at but Deadpool 2 takes time for actual character development before poking fun at DC and the MCU — it's nice to know Reynolds and Leitch have their priorities straight.
The original Deadpool was the highest grossing X-Men film ever and no one saw it coming. Apart from three Bryan Singer films (the two originals and Days of Future Past) and last year’s Logan, 20th Century Fox’s portion of Marvel properties hasn’t made a tremendous imprint on the modern cultural phenomenon of superhero films, especially with Disney further monopolizing the box office calendar year by year.
Yet somehow Ryan Reynolds spewing sarcasm in red spandex tapped right into the domestic zeitgeist. The result was middling, with humor spanning sharp wit and the lowliest, most smug self-awareness you’d see in any given Seth MacFarlane joint. But we got a decent origin story, some time for smaller X-Men characters and an accurate if overrated reflection of our popular interests. Luckily the sequel improves upon just about everything. With a director of considerable style at the command — David Leitch, long-time second unit director, stunt coordinator extraordinaire and the guy behind the kicked asses of John Wick (partly) and Atomic Blonde — working with a fat budget, smart casting, a good villain and an alright story just for kicks, Deadpool 2 surpasses its predecessor with ease.
Stakes are set pretty fast when Wade Wilson's fiancée Vanessa (Morena Baccarin) bites it in the opening scene. Embracing emotional underpinnings akin to the first Deadpool, this sequel trades a love story for family film tropes. Wade seeks redemption in an attempt to correct flame-handed Russell Collins (Hunt for the Wilderpeople star and New Zealand treasure Julian Dennison) down a better path in which Cable (Josh Brolin), a time-traveling super soldier, won't have to murder the young boy in order to save his family who will eventually be killed by his future fiery fists. Brolin's turn here marks the distinguished actor's second Marvel villain in a month — along with the universe-toppling Thanos in Infinity War — as he brings another sympathetic bad guy to life. New faces like the super-fortunate Domino (Zazie Beetz) are welcome additions to the X-universe.
In spite of the blockbuster augmentations and a thicker runtime, Deadpool 2 still appears quaint, hand-made and audacious. The jokes are mercifully less abrasive — even with a handful too many outdated references the metatextual elements are more subtle and satiating than round one of the R-rated antihero antics. Leitch's hand in the fight sequences is unswerving and up to his own standards — the major second act set piece is both boisterous and inventively thrilling.
Like 22 Jump Street, as a meta-sequel Deadpool 2 is as inspired as you can get by modifying and renovating all the ingredients working so well in the former film. The opening credits sequence parodying Bond and the Marvel-esque post-credit stabs are some of the film's funniest segments. The film in between has plenty to chortle at but Deadpool 2 takes time for actual character development before poking fun at DC and the MCU — it's nice to know Reynolds and Leitch have their priorities straight.
Disobedience briefing
1 ½ (out of 4)
Sebastián Lelio is presently reimagining his critically acclaimed 2013 Chilean-Spanish film Gloria with Julianne Moore — meanwhile Disobedience is the young Argentine director's first real foray into English language features following his very recent Oscar-winning film A Fantastic Woman. However none of the Lelio's ability to impart visual poetry or empathetically depict femininity as demonstrated in last year's Best Foreign Language Film manifests in his latest work.
Covering the reunion between two women who have been parted since they were teenagers decades earlier, the film contrasts a secretive lesbian affair between Ronit (Rachel Weisz) and Esti (Rachel McAdams) with the austere Jewish Orthodoxy of which the latter of the ladies is bound by marriage. Weisz (who need not change accents with the London setting) acts circles around her much less capable co-star. McAdams fakes it all the way, turning in a performance that would fit better in a well-funded porno. Respectable actors in the supporting cast like Alessandro Nivola are stifled by the overwrought and maudlin execution of Disobedience's subject.
I admire each Rachel in their respective element but there's really no room to breathe let alone emote properly when boxed in by stereotypical LGBTQ+ movie trappings. Hardly even worth comparing to exceedingly superior recent films like Blue Is the Warmest Colour and Carol, Lelio's sensibilities in screenwriting here rival that of the average paperback novel. Unless you go in with only a fetish for good-looking actresses dribbling into each other's mouths (not sure I could blame you), Disobedience will leave you with very little cinematic substance.
Speckles of finely framed cinematography don't overcome the film's perfectly drab composition. Instead of bravery and beauty, Disobedience is uniformly bland and banal. The movie barely goes beyond the basics of its erotic love story amidst oppressive, unfeeling institutions — I can't think of any audiences coming away pleased other than horny old grandmas.
Sebastián Lelio is presently reimagining his critically acclaimed 2013 Chilean-Spanish film Gloria with Julianne Moore — meanwhile Disobedience is the young Argentine director's first real foray into English language features following his very recent Oscar-winning film A Fantastic Woman. However none of the Lelio's ability to impart visual poetry or empathetically depict femininity as demonstrated in last year's Best Foreign Language Film manifests in his latest work.
Covering the reunion between two women who have been parted since they were teenagers decades earlier, the film contrasts a secretive lesbian affair between Ronit (Rachel Weisz) and Esti (Rachel McAdams) with the austere Jewish Orthodoxy of which the latter of the ladies is bound by marriage. Weisz (who need not change accents with the London setting) acts circles around her much less capable co-star. McAdams fakes it all the way, turning in a performance that would fit better in a well-funded porno. Respectable actors in the supporting cast like Alessandro Nivola are stifled by the overwrought and maudlin execution of Disobedience's subject.
I admire each Rachel in their respective element but there's really no room to breathe let alone emote properly when boxed in by stereotypical LGBTQ+ movie trappings. Hardly even worth comparing to exceedingly superior recent films like Blue Is the Warmest Colour and Carol, Lelio's sensibilities in screenwriting here rival that of the average paperback novel. Unless you go in with only a fetish for good-looking actresses dribbling into each other's mouths (not sure I could blame you), Disobedience will leave you with very little cinematic substance.
Speckles of finely framed cinematography don't overcome the film's perfectly drab composition. Instead of bravery and beauty, Disobedience is uniformly bland and banal. The movie barely goes beyond the basics of its erotic love story amidst oppressive, unfeeling institutions — I can't think of any audiences coming away pleased other than horny old grandmas.
Tully briefing
3 (out of 4)
10 years ago Jason Reitman was one of the few Academy darling directors actually worth his salt, but his relevance to the world of filmmaking today has all but evaporated. The determined, dramatic sidesteps of his last two features Labor Day and Men, Women & Children floundered both critically and financially — it seemed we lost whatever was left of the guy who brought us movies like Thank You for Smoking and a masterwork in Up in the Air.
Writer Diablo Cody — who won Best Original Screenplay for her debut Juno and penned Reitman’s last decent film Young Adult — has returned with Tully, a thematic counterweight to her own brand of maternity-centered comedy as well as another well-conceived platform for Charlize Theron’s considerable acting talent. For Reitman, this third collaboration with Cody is a pleasure, a relief and a decisive return to form.
Removed from the adolescent mindset in any shape or form, Cody’s dialogue is the most observational and naturally funny of her pairings with Reitman. Even with generous helpings of surgically arranged banter all the film’s hilarity comes from her knack for unflattering social commentary and an intuition for revelatory character interactions. The tale of Tully finds Ron Livingston's Drew and Theron's Marlo as husband and wife expecting their third child. Mark Duplass plays Marlo’s well-to-do brother Craig who suggests hiring a night nanny during the early stages of infancy, so Mackenzie Davis's titular Tully helps Marlo get some sleep and get her shit together.
You can hardly believe Theron was the Atomic Blonde herself less than a year ago as the Oscar winner's broad range takes her back to an inelegance similar to both her vapid YA novelist character in Young Adult and her legendary performance in Monster. Davis is also worth treasuring, nailing her character's alarming sincerity and millennial youthfulness. Through their characters' oddly intimate relationship, the script scales the most human aspects of motherhood. From the nightmares in and out of sleep to the serenity of casually conversing with your kids and asserting your parental instincts, Tully is full of refreshing takes on well-explored ideas.
Cody may not have supplied much of a convincing twist ending but the quality of her writing beforehand is dense enough that you might even be playing catch-up with the film’s subtleties. In direction, Reitman retains his skill in selective soundtrack choices, informing tone and montage more appropriately than traditional scoring ever could. His ear is what makes him so good at delicately oscillating between witticism and sincerity, and the equilibrium he strikes here is on par with some of his best films.
10 years ago Jason Reitman was one of the few Academy darling directors actually worth his salt, but his relevance to the world of filmmaking today has all but evaporated. The determined, dramatic sidesteps of his last two features Labor Day and Men, Women & Children floundered both critically and financially — it seemed we lost whatever was left of the guy who brought us movies like Thank You for Smoking and a masterwork in Up in the Air.
Writer Diablo Cody — who won Best Original Screenplay for her debut Juno and penned Reitman’s last decent film Young Adult — has returned with Tully, a thematic counterweight to her own brand of maternity-centered comedy as well as another well-conceived platform for Charlize Theron’s considerable acting talent. For Reitman, this third collaboration with Cody is a pleasure, a relief and a decisive return to form.
Removed from the adolescent mindset in any shape or form, Cody’s dialogue is the most observational and naturally funny of her pairings with Reitman. Even with generous helpings of surgically arranged banter all the film’s hilarity comes from her knack for unflattering social commentary and an intuition for revelatory character interactions. The tale of Tully finds Ron Livingston's Drew and Theron's Marlo as husband and wife expecting their third child. Mark Duplass plays Marlo’s well-to-do brother Craig who suggests hiring a night nanny during the early stages of infancy, so Mackenzie Davis's titular Tully helps Marlo get some sleep and get her shit together.
You can hardly believe Theron was the Atomic Blonde herself less than a year ago as the Oscar winner's broad range takes her back to an inelegance similar to both her vapid YA novelist character in Young Adult and her legendary performance in Monster. Davis is also worth treasuring, nailing her character's alarming sincerity and millennial youthfulness. Through their characters' oddly intimate relationship, the script scales the most human aspects of motherhood. From the nightmares in and out of sleep to the serenity of casually conversing with your kids and asserting your parental instincts, Tully is full of refreshing takes on well-explored ideas.
Cody may not have supplied much of a convincing twist ending but the quality of her writing beforehand is dense enough that you might even be playing catch-up with the film’s subtleties. In direction, Reitman retains his skill in selective soundtrack choices, informing tone and montage more appropriately than traditional scoring ever could. His ear is what makes him so good at delicately oscillating between witticism and sincerity, and the equilibrium he strikes here is on par with some of his best films.
Avengers: Infinity War briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
Is it the blockbuster event of the age or a sure sign of the degeneration of popular culture? Why not both? Surely your enthusiasm for the Marvel Cinematic Universe prior to Avengers: Infinity War will factor into enjoying the 19th installment in the mega-franchise. But even if the lesser characters, internal references and extraneous fan service play no part in one's processing of this third Avengers film, the massive culmination of Disney’s powerhouse property is more than worth its weight in absurd and unapologetic entertainment value.
With the 'final' Avengers movie awaiting us in one year's time, it's dubious to praise slightly bolder choices for a film series that relies so faithfully on formula and could also put literally anything on-screen, turn a profit and still have audiences clamoring for more. Yet credit must be given to the Russo brothers' accomplishment in easing realism and brutality into the steady stream of colorful fun bit by bit with the Captain America sequels Winter Soldier and Civil War. The pair of directors tested out the multi-hero mayhem of Infinity War with the latter and so far has only improved Marvel's output in regard to kinetic action and tonal precision. The Russos Two are now leagues away from those Community paintball episodes but even with budgets upwards of 250 million and too many characters to count, their ability to balance heightened drama and mischievous cheek is as deft as ever.
Like trying to keep two dozen or so plates spinning from your various appendages, Infinity War is not just a work of filmmaking acrobatics — it's a feat leaving the highly anticipated get together of the original Avengers looking streamlined and safe. Without Whedon’s touch in making every character interaction pop — Age of Ultron, campy and perfunctory as it may be, is still one of the stronger MCU films — Infinity War delivers the crossover goods nonetheless. The film doesn’t just ration out screen time, but mix and matches its characters like the world’s most inspired ten-year-old rearranging his action figures into action sequences. For as much as the scale of these films has only furthered with each expansive installment, this is the first Marvel film that is resoundingly spectacular in scope. There's enough planet-hopping to call it a space opera and every scene transition is refreshing — like the best team-up movies, every hero gets a moment in the sun even as they're spread out in various corners of the threatened universe.
The primary Avengers — Iron Man, Captain America, Thor (sorry Hulk) — are all separated. Tony Stark becomes entangled with Spider-Man and Doctor Strange on an alien craft, Thor's people are destroyed before he is intercepted by the Guardians of the Galaxy — largely Rocket Raccoon and Groot — and Steve Rogers regroups with many a minor Avenger in Wakanda where the battlefront on earth takes place. Without overexplaining the Infinity Stones (which have been integrated via several MacGuffins throughout the MCU), if the big bad Thanos gets his hands on all six of them, he then wields the godlike ability to instantaneously wipe out half of all life at random, his recipe for bringing stability to the cosmos. Josh Brolin's purple spaceman villain is treated to maximum screen time in order to understand his character, motivations and the threats servicing the finally formidable stakes. This means when exhibiting our countless heroes (who've already gone through their necessary development) there's not a moment to spare or a second of boredom. After a first act of expositing and reintroductions, there’s nothing but the grandiose fulfillment of numerous nerd fantasies while perfectly whetting appetites for what should be a colossal finale.
But even with certain departures from Marvel's worst habits — underdeveloped villains, hit-and-miss quipping — Disney's routines are what hold back Infinity War from true pop culture greatness. The pivotal emotional relationship between Thanos and adopted daughter Gamora is the film's weakest element, and the jokes, while frequently gleeful, are injected with such frequency that the necessary coddling of casual moviegoers is sometimes suffocating. That said, this preposterously enjoyable superhero epic is a cornucopia of genre thrills — it's like the biggest season finale of all time with a gut punch of a cliffhanger to boot. The movie’s huge bummer of an ending is just fodder to fuel the hype of diehards and ever pique the interest of everyone else. I do, however, respect the absence of any hope for our heroes as we leave the theater — Kevin Feige knows we’ll be back all the same.
Is it the blockbuster event of the age or a sure sign of the degeneration of popular culture? Why not both? Surely your enthusiasm for the Marvel Cinematic Universe prior to Avengers: Infinity War will factor into enjoying the 19th installment in the mega-franchise. But even if the lesser characters, internal references and extraneous fan service play no part in one's processing of this third Avengers film, the massive culmination of Disney’s powerhouse property is more than worth its weight in absurd and unapologetic entertainment value.
With the 'final' Avengers movie awaiting us in one year's time, it's dubious to praise slightly bolder choices for a film series that relies so faithfully on formula and could also put literally anything on-screen, turn a profit and still have audiences clamoring for more. Yet credit must be given to the Russo brothers' accomplishment in easing realism and brutality into the steady stream of colorful fun bit by bit with the Captain America sequels Winter Soldier and Civil War. The pair of directors tested out the multi-hero mayhem of Infinity War with the latter and so far has only improved Marvel's output in regard to kinetic action and tonal precision. The Russos Two are now leagues away from those Community paintball episodes but even with budgets upwards of 250 million and too many characters to count, their ability to balance heightened drama and mischievous cheek is as deft as ever.
Like trying to keep two dozen or so plates spinning from your various appendages, Infinity War is not just a work of filmmaking acrobatics — it's a feat leaving the highly anticipated get together of the original Avengers looking streamlined and safe. Without Whedon’s touch in making every character interaction pop — Age of Ultron, campy and perfunctory as it may be, is still one of the stronger MCU films — Infinity War delivers the crossover goods nonetheless. The film doesn’t just ration out screen time, but mix and matches its characters like the world’s most inspired ten-year-old rearranging his action figures into action sequences. For as much as the scale of these films has only furthered with each expansive installment, this is the first Marvel film that is resoundingly spectacular in scope. There's enough planet-hopping to call it a space opera and every scene transition is refreshing — like the best team-up movies, every hero gets a moment in the sun even as they're spread out in various corners of the threatened universe.
The primary Avengers — Iron Man, Captain America, Thor (sorry Hulk) — are all separated. Tony Stark becomes entangled with Spider-Man and Doctor Strange on an alien craft, Thor's people are destroyed before he is intercepted by the Guardians of the Galaxy — largely Rocket Raccoon and Groot — and Steve Rogers regroups with many a minor Avenger in Wakanda where the battlefront on earth takes place. Without overexplaining the Infinity Stones (which have been integrated via several MacGuffins throughout the MCU), if the big bad Thanos gets his hands on all six of them, he then wields the godlike ability to instantaneously wipe out half of all life at random, his recipe for bringing stability to the cosmos. Josh Brolin's purple spaceman villain is treated to maximum screen time in order to understand his character, motivations and the threats servicing the finally formidable stakes. This means when exhibiting our countless heroes (who've already gone through their necessary development) there's not a moment to spare or a second of boredom. After a first act of expositing and reintroductions, there’s nothing but the grandiose fulfillment of numerous nerd fantasies while perfectly whetting appetites for what should be a colossal finale.
But even with certain departures from Marvel's worst habits — underdeveloped villains, hit-and-miss quipping — Disney's routines are what hold back Infinity War from true pop culture greatness. The pivotal emotional relationship between Thanos and adopted daughter Gamora is the film's weakest element, and the jokes, while frequently gleeful, are injected with such frequency that the necessary coddling of casual moviegoers is sometimes suffocating. That said, this preposterously enjoyable superhero epic is a cornucopia of genre thrills — it's like the biggest season finale of all time with a gut punch of a cliffhanger to boot. The movie’s huge bummer of an ending is just fodder to fuel the hype of diehards and ever pique the interest of everyone else. I do, however, respect the absence of any hope for our heroes as we leave the theater — Kevin Feige knows we’ll be back all the same.
You Were Never Really Here briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
If you thought We Need to Talk About Kevin was a marathon mindfuck, writer-director Lynne Ramsay’s violent, beautifully enigmatic neo-noir You Were Never Really Here somehow manages to be even more disorienting and fascinating whilst navigating a fairly straightforward crime thriller plot.
Joe (a jacked, brooding Joaquin Phoenix) is an ex-military gun for hire doing covert jobs while he takes care of his elderly mother. A sucker for asphyxiating himself and prone to PTSD flashbacks of traumatic childhood memories and past hits, Ramsay and Phoenix’s combined effort places us right in the shoes of a brutish outsider whose next assignment is to rescue a Senator’s daughter sold into prostitution.
Even if you wanted to accuse You Were Never Really Here of favoring style over substance, you’d be overlooking a lean, serpentine narrative not to mention the film's perfection on so many technical levels. The film's sound design is a miracle of meticulously crafted ambiance — Jonny Greenwood’s hypnagogic electronic soundtrack (reminiscent of Trent Reznor's effect on David Fincher’s recent output) is a brilliant extension of original scoring beyond every Paul Thomas Anderson film since There Will Be Blood. In fact, Phoenix’s raw method acting is nearly as formidable as his work in The Master — supported by Greenwood’s ethereal vibrations, YWNRH feels as close as we’ll get to a PTA horror film.
The sound design becomes a symphony of Lynchian atmospherics when the ghostly score takes a break, and choice diegetic pop songs (Rosie & The Originals' "Angel Baby" specifically) paint purposeful swatches of irony and black humor on a film that largely radiates distressing, chilling darkness. The cinematography, as well as the film’s perplexing structure, obscures even the most easily explainable moments. This constant unease has you leaning into every stylistic change, soaking in all of Ramsay's unpredictable conceptual movements.
Disquieting, densely puzzling and callously exhilarating, You Were Never Really Here made waves at last year's Cannes and the film's effect lives up to its reputation. As only her fourth feature in two decades — rearing the bitter coming-of-age story Ratcatcher, the psychological audacity of Morvern Callar, and the aforementioned Kevin – this film furthermore cements Ramsay as a director worthy of close scrutiny.
If you thought We Need to Talk About Kevin was a marathon mindfuck, writer-director Lynne Ramsay’s violent, beautifully enigmatic neo-noir You Were Never Really Here somehow manages to be even more disorienting and fascinating whilst navigating a fairly straightforward crime thriller plot.
Joe (a jacked, brooding Joaquin Phoenix) is an ex-military gun for hire doing covert jobs while he takes care of his elderly mother. A sucker for asphyxiating himself and prone to PTSD flashbacks of traumatic childhood memories and past hits, Ramsay and Phoenix’s combined effort places us right in the shoes of a brutish outsider whose next assignment is to rescue a Senator’s daughter sold into prostitution.
Even if you wanted to accuse You Were Never Really Here of favoring style over substance, you’d be overlooking a lean, serpentine narrative not to mention the film's perfection on so many technical levels. The film's sound design is a miracle of meticulously crafted ambiance — Jonny Greenwood’s hypnagogic electronic soundtrack (reminiscent of Trent Reznor's effect on David Fincher’s recent output) is a brilliant extension of original scoring beyond every Paul Thomas Anderson film since There Will Be Blood. In fact, Phoenix’s raw method acting is nearly as formidable as his work in The Master — supported by Greenwood’s ethereal vibrations, YWNRH feels as close as we’ll get to a PTA horror film.
The sound design becomes a symphony of Lynchian atmospherics when the ghostly score takes a break, and choice diegetic pop songs (Rosie & The Originals' "Angel Baby" specifically) paint purposeful swatches of irony and black humor on a film that largely radiates distressing, chilling darkness. The cinematography, as well as the film’s perplexing structure, obscures even the most easily explainable moments. This constant unease has you leaning into every stylistic change, soaking in all of Ramsay's unpredictable conceptual movements.
Disquieting, densely puzzling and callously exhilarating, You Were Never Really Here made waves at last year's Cannes and the film's effect lives up to its reputation. As only her fourth feature in two decades — rearing the bitter coming-of-age story Ratcatcher, the psychological audacity of Morvern Callar, and the aforementioned Kevin – this film furthermore cements Ramsay as a director worthy of close scrutiny.
Lean on Pete briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
Andrew Haigh hasn't faltered for a second this decade. After two distinctly divergent meditations on relationships and time in the homosexual hookup of Weekend to the late-blooming marital crisis of 45 Years, Haigh — seemingly wise beyond his years at age 45 — returns with his finest film of the decade in Lean on Pete.
On the surface, it's just a tale of a horse and his boy. Charley, played by the young and doubtlessly promising Charlie Plummer, lives alone with his sleazy yet loving alcoholic father (Travis Fimmel). Charley locates his passions in helping brusque Del Montgomery (Steve Buscemi) take care of half a dozen racehorses. Earning money while traveling with jockey Bonnie (Chloe Sevigny) for local races, Charley can’t help his growing attachment to an older quarter bred named Pete.
Working as a scenic Northwestern odyssey as well as a hushed, harrowing tragedy, Lean on Pete pulls no punches. Yet the blistering emotions that arise from the story aren’t at all tainted by sentiment or schmaltz. On paper, the film's most devastating moments might appear manipulative — on-screen, every pivotal passage is punctuated by instinctively wondrous direction.
Utilizing selective long takes in crucial scenes in addition to stunning wide shots and superimpositions — particularly in the film's substantially spacious second half — Pete is visually transporting but serenely understated. Especially in low lighting and even in its bleakest passages, Haigh’s film emanates uncommon warmth.
Propped up by superb acting and gently potent cinematic power, Lean on Pete rises far above its innate simplicity — it's as terse and true as a classic folk song.
Andrew Haigh hasn't faltered for a second this decade. After two distinctly divergent meditations on relationships and time in the homosexual hookup of Weekend to the late-blooming marital crisis of 45 Years, Haigh — seemingly wise beyond his years at age 45 — returns with his finest film of the decade in Lean on Pete.
On the surface, it's just a tale of a horse and his boy. Charley, played by the young and doubtlessly promising Charlie Plummer, lives alone with his sleazy yet loving alcoholic father (Travis Fimmel). Charley locates his passions in helping brusque Del Montgomery (Steve Buscemi) take care of half a dozen racehorses. Earning money while traveling with jockey Bonnie (Chloe Sevigny) for local races, Charley can’t help his growing attachment to an older quarter bred named Pete.
Working as a scenic Northwestern odyssey as well as a hushed, harrowing tragedy, Lean on Pete pulls no punches. Yet the blistering emotions that arise from the story aren’t at all tainted by sentiment or schmaltz. On paper, the film's most devastating moments might appear manipulative — on-screen, every pivotal passage is punctuated by instinctively wondrous direction.
Utilizing selective long takes in crucial scenes in addition to stunning wide shots and superimpositions — particularly in the film's substantially spacious second half — Pete is visually transporting but serenely understated. Especially in low lighting and even in its bleakest passages, Haigh’s film emanates uncommon warmth.
Propped up by superb acting and gently potent cinematic power, Lean on Pete rises far above its innate simplicity — it's as terse and true as a classic folk song.
A Quiet Place briefing
3 (out of 4)
As star, co-writer and director of A Quiet Place, it’d be too easy to praise John Krasinski as a rising talent. First off, fellow screenwriters Bryan Woods and Scott Beck wrote the story, and there just ain’t enough dialogue that wouldn’t have already made it into the rough draft. And as assuredly suspenseful as the film is, Krasinski is more convincing as a real dramatic actor than a blossoming filmmaker. In short, this movie would have been hard to fuck up.
With a monster movie premise this elemental and a screenplay so trim, not much can or does go wrong in terms of rewarding the target audience of A Quiet Place with exactly what they hope for. The drama of a family surviving a post-apocalyptic hellscape plagued with sound-sensitive creatures writes itself. Krasinski and his actual wife Emily Blunt star as parents of three who lose their youngest son in the film's merciless opening scene. Years after, the couple decides the best way to protect themselves and their remaining children from gruesome deaths is to bring a screaming newborn into the same world where noise gets you killed.
As entertainment, the tension is frequently visceral once the story takes hold. Even though it goes in the expected directions, it's gratifying to see a film sustain a prolonged and effective climax for a good 40 minutes. A Quiet Place is better the faster it moves since Krasinski can temporarily prevent the urge to stick a finger through the script's numerous plot holes.
In a genre as diluted as horror it’s hard not to get worked up when something incidentally superior to garbage comes along (Truth or Dare anyone?), yet the critical masses couldn't help but overpraise A Quiet Place despite its creditable qualities. The relative absence of sound legitimizes jump scares for more honorable intentions but there is not enough emphasis on silence, atmospheric sound mixing or inventive scoring. As new parents themselves, Krasinski and Blunt lend their characters some identifiable gravitas — the child actors perform well also — but the characterization and emotional blows of A Quiet Place are unsubstantial.
Still, an ingeniously succinct ending — even though it points toward potential sequels — left me pleased with what was left to the imagination. With no clear backstory or rules, it's best think about A Quiet Place as little as possible in order to enjoy the fullness of its excitement.
As star, co-writer and director of A Quiet Place, it’d be too easy to praise John Krasinski as a rising talent. First off, fellow screenwriters Bryan Woods and Scott Beck wrote the story, and there just ain’t enough dialogue that wouldn’t have already made it into the rough draft. And as assuredly suspenseful as the film is, Krasinski is more convincing as a real dramatic actor than a blossoming filmmaker. In short, this movie would have been hard to fuck up.
With a monster movie premise this elemental and a screenplay so trim, not much can or does go wrong in terms of rewarding the target audience of A Quiet Place with exactly what they hope for. The drama of a family surviving a post-apocalyptic hellscape plagued with sound-sensitive creatures writes itself. Krasinski and his actual wife Emily Blunt star as parents of three who lose their youngest son in the film's merciless opening scene. Years after, the couple decides the best way to protect themselves and their remaining children from gruesome deaths is to bring a screaming newborn into the same world where noise gets you killed.
As entertainment, the tension is frequently visceral once the story takes hold. Even though it goes in the expected directions, it's gratifying to see a film sustain a prolonged and effective climax for a good 40 minutes. A Quiet Place is better the faster it moves since Krasinski can temporarily prevent the urge to stick a finger through the script's numerous plot holes.
In a genre as diluted as horror it’s hard not to get worked up when something incidentally superior to garbage comes along (Truth or Dare anyone?), yet the critical masses couldn't help but overpraise A Quiet Place despite its creditable qualities. The relative absence of sound legitimizes jump scares for more honorable intentions but there is not enough emphasis on silence, atmospheric sound mixing or inventive scoring. As new parents themselves, Krasinski and Blunt lend their characters some identifiable gravitas — the child actors perform well also — but the characterization and emotional blows of A Quiet Place are unsubstantial.
Still, an ingeniously succinct ending — even though it points toward potential sequels — left me pleased with what was left to the imagination. With no clear backstory or rules, it's best think about A Quiet Place as little as possible in order to enjoy the fullness of its excitement.
Gemini briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
Writer-director Aaron Katz returns to the realm of murder and movie-isms — not unlike his nifty 2010 neo-noir Cold Weather — under the florescence of LA in Gemini. After premiering at South by Southwest in March of 2017, Neon distributes this gracefully glib thriller over a year later.
Katz can do plenty with next to nothing as shown by his resourceful, prodigy-film-student intuition and adept screenwriting, but with Gemini he really shows his acute eye for atmospherics and his keen ear for show-stopping soundtracks. Composer Keegan DeWitt's hyper-modern score is primed with chopped vocals and trap beats coalescing in a vaporwave vibe heightening the film's neon-drenched ambiance and keeping Katz' slight but ever so intriguing plot unfolding smoothly.
Lola Kirke — who had recently enough shown unlimited potential in the lead role of Noah Baumbach's Mistress America — is a wonder to watch as Jill, assistant to the popular actress Heather Anderson (Zoë Kravitz). In what seems like a supporting role at first, Kirke becomes our protagonist when Heather appears to be murdered and Jill is the primary suspect — John Cho stars as the detective on the case.
With its well-devised gotcha twist, Gemini's slender narrative is more than deserving of the film's radiant aesthetics, lush locales and respectable acting repertoire. Still, Katz' directorial arc seems to be on the brink of more significant, ambitious works to come. Sifting through clichés in order to revive them, Gemini furthers Katz as a natural and studied filmmaker with a proclivity for well-timed humor, sparingly conjured suspense and plausible, engrossing mystery elements.
Writer-director Aaron Katz returns to the realm of murder and movie-isms — not unlike his nifty 2010 neo-noir Cold Weather — under the florescence of LA in Gemini. After premiering at South by Southwest in March of 2017, Neon distributes this gracefully glib thriller over a year later.
Katz can do plenty with next to nothing as shown by his resourceful, prodigy-film-student intuition and adept screenwriting, but with Gemini he really shows his acute eye for atmospherics and his keen ear for show-stopping soundtracks. Composer Keegan DeWitt's hyper-modern score is primed with chopped vocals and trap beats coalescing in a vaporwave vibe heightening the film's neon-drenched ambiance and keeping Katz' slight but ever so intriguing plot unfolding smoothly.
Lola Kirke — who had recently enough shown unlimited potential in the lead role of Noah Baumbach's Mistress America — is a wonder to watch as Jill, assistant to the popular actress Heather Anderson (Zoë Kravitz). In what seems like a supporting role at first, Kirke becomes our protagonist when Heather appears to be murdered and Jill is the primary suspect — John Cho stars as the detective on the case.
With its well-devised gotcha twist, Gemini's slender narrative is more than deserving of the film's radiant aesthetics, lush locales and respectable acting repertoire. Still, Katz' directorial arc seems to be on the brink of more significant, ambitious works to come. Sifting through clichés in order to revive them, Gemini furthers Katz as a natural and studied filmmaker with a proclivity for well-timed humor, sparingly conjured suspense and plausible, engrossing mystery elements.
Ready Player One briefing
2 (out of 4)
In the moment, the combination of Steven Spielberg’s propulsive, intuitive directorial skills and 175 million dollars equates to relatively unmatched entertainment. Yet Ready Player One cannot exercise its digital cinematic adventure without reverting to a narrative built more on citing pop culture instead of honest affect or actual science fiction.
What few human elements are present are pedestrian at best — most of our time is spent in an overwhelming 3D-animated universe, the in-film virtual reality world OASIS. Milquetoast Tye Sheridan stars as Wade Watts who, as his avatar Parzival, wants to beat the challenges left behind by the system's late creator, who will award the control of the game as prize from beyond the grave; he also wishes to romance his online fantasy, Art3mis, or Samantha Cook in person (the gifted up-and-comer Olivia Cooke). Going into a Spielberg film, there's little else to expect besides bright-eyed sentiment and crowd-pleasing genre thrills. It's a reliable template but our lead characters are hardly any more relatable than Ben Mendelsohn’s commonplace corporate villain Nolan Sorrento, a ruthless CEO seeking to exploit the OASIS for profit.
As much as I question how much involvement Spielberg and DoP Janusz Kamińnki had in the digital animation process, the result is as seamless as Spielberg’s first proper try at this technology in The Adventures of Tintin. Though inferior to that film and most of Spielberg's filmography, it's comforting to know the classic director can create his worst sci-fi film by a mile and still end up with something about as intrepid as Avatar.
Speaking of similar movies, the film somehow emulates both Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory and Spy Kids 3-D: Game Over — even with its dystopian future setting, Ready Player One is strangely fitted for tots instead of tweens. Despite an excitable premise that could easily bring up bigger philosophical, social or cinematic questions, the story settles for the most rudimentary of thematic content. Even the rules of the OASIS's virtual universe are never properly explained and everything spelled out for us is a crude, unfulfilled vision of tomorrow.
At about 30 minutes too long, Spielberg shows no restraint in baiting his audience with nostalgia. The film's worst sequence is an extended homage (if you can even call it that) to The Shining that would give Stanley Kubrick a migraine. Just a decade or so ago Spielberg was putting together late masterworks like A.I. and Minority Report, films that would have done his filmmaking forefather proud. I can't imagine how Spielberg thinks he's paying reverence one of his favorite films by one of his major influences — regardless of his expertise in navigating nine-figure-budgeted blockbusters, fun can't redeem the largely hollow reality at play in Ready Player One.
In the moment, the combination of Steven Spielberg’s propulsive, intuitive directorial skills and 175 million dollars equates to relatively unmatched entertainment. Yet Ready Player One cannot exercise its digital cinematic adventure without reverting to a narrative built more on citing pop culture instead of honest affect or actual science fiction.
What few human elements are present are pedestrian at best — most of our time is spent in an overwhelming 3D-animated universe, the in-film virtual reality world OASIS. Milquetoast Tye Sheridan stars as Wade Watts who, as his avatar Parzival, wants to beat the challenges left behind by the system's late creator, who will award the control of the game as prize from beyond the grave; he also wishes to romance his online fantasy, Art3mis, or Samantha Cook in person (the gifted up-and-comer Olivia Cooke). Going into a Spielberg film, there's little else to expect besides bright-eyed sentiment and crowd-pleasing genre thrills. It's a reliable template but our lead characters are hardly any more relatable than Ben Mendelsohn’s commonplace corporate villain Nolan Sorrento, a ruthless CEO seeking to exploit the OASIS for profit.
As much as I question how much involvement Spielberg and DoP Janusz Kamińnki had in the digital animation process, the result is as seamless as Spielberg’s first proper try at this technology in The Adventures of Tintin. Though inferior to that film and most of Spielberg's filmography, it's comforting to know the classic director can create his worst sci-fi film by a mile and still end up with something about as intrepid as Avatar.
Speaking of similar movies, the film somehow emulates both Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory and Spy Kids 3-D: Game Over — even with its dystopian future setting, Ready Player One is strangely fitted for tots instead of tweens. Despite an excitable premise that could easily bring up bigger philosophical, social or cinematic questions, the story settles for the most rudimentary of thematic content. Even the rules of the OASIS's virtual universe are never properly explained and everything spelled out for us is a crude, unfulfilled vision of tomorrow.
At about 30 minutes too long, Spielberg shows no restraint in baiting his audience with nostalgia. The film's worst sequence is an extended homage (if you can even call it that) to The Shining that would give Stanley Kubrick a migraine. Just a decade or so ago Spielberg was putting together late masterworks like A.I. and Minority Report, films that would have done his filmmaking forefather proud. I can't imagine how Spielberg thinks he's paying reverence one of his favorite films by one of his major influences — regardless of his expertise in navigating nine-figure-budgeted blockbusters, fun can't redeem the largely hollow reality at play in Ready Player One.
Isle of Dogs briefing
2 ½ (out of 4)
With auteurist trademarks so mathematical, recognizable and unswerving, is there any room for Wes Anderson to grow as a filmmaker? Isle of Dogs has everything you could expect and/or enjoy from the idiosyncratic director — relentless symmetry and one-point perspective, impassive humor, an array of quirky, appropriately named characters and so forth — but none of the unassuming sophistication that often lifts his best work above a typical smorgasbord of kitsch.
In returning to anthropomorphic animals in stop-motion reminiscent of his lovely adaptation of Roald Dahl's Fantastic Mr. Fox, this feature is sorely missing the gently acerbic wit of Noah Baumbach's writing or a story that doesn’t exclusively please pup-lovers and hipsters. Mr. Fox was for all viewers but especially kids — every other Anderson movie has strands of maturity in brief moments of harsh violence and handfuls of unsavory characters, but all the adult elements of Isle of Dogs don't quite congeal within the thoroughly twee diversion.
But of all the criticisms for Anderson's latest, the one thing that can't be overlooked is the film's rather Americanized view of Japan. Perhaps the easy cultural staples and cheap lost-in-translation humor might be intentionally small-minded, but a plot hinged on the Japanese government's utmost hatred of dogs feels just a few hairs shy of pretty racist. With a filmography of innocence chased with a splash or two of graphic language, bloodshed or sexuality, I would assume Anderson's appropriation for the sake of a new setting was purely affectionate. It still feels pretty cheap — who knows what testy millennials and real Japanese audiences will think about this one.
So regardless of racial subtext, Isle of Dogs tries to contrast its cute band of talking mutts with the backdrop of disease, corruption and conspiracy theories. While I understand he's not adapting a children's book this time around, the effort is about half as refined in its narrative, character or dialogue as Anderson's finest even though his impressive craft strongly persists. The film is as visually delightful as any of his past work and the superlative voice cast comes standard, full of appreciated new recruits (Bryan Cranston, Greta Gerwig) and familiar timbres to Wes's catalogue (Bill Murray, Frances McDormand and many others).
His last film The Grand Budapest Hotel was a calling card to the director's qualifications and furthermore quintessential Wes Anderson in spite of landing just short of his best. Isle of Dogs is firmly amusing but, as Anderson's ninth feature, the movie does little other than dilute the breadth of his creations altogether.
With auteurist trademarks so mathematical, recognizable and unswerving, is there any room for Wes Anderson to grow as a filmmaker? Isle of Dogs has everything you could expect and/or enjoy from the idiosyncratic director — relentless symmetry and one-point perspective, impassive humor, an array of quirky, appropriately named characters and so forth — but none of the unassuming sophistication that often lifts his best work above a typical smorgasbord of kitsch.
In returning to anthropomorphic animals in stop-motion reminiscent of his lovely adaptation of Roald Dahl's Fantastic Mr. Fox, this feature is sorely missing the gently acerbic wit of Noah Baumbach's writing or a story that doesn’t exclusively please pup-lovers and hipsters. Mr. Fox was for all viewers but especially kids — every other Anderson movie has strands of maturity in brief moments of harsh violence and handfuls of unsavory characters, but all the adult elements of Isle of Dogs don't quite congeal within the thoroughly twee diversion.
But of all the criticisms for Anderson's latest, the one thing that can't be overlooked is the film's rather Americanized view of Japan. Perhaps the easy cultural staples and cheap lost-in-translation humor might be intentionally small-minded, but a plot hinged on the Japanese government's utmost hatred of dogs feels just a few hairs shy of pretty racist. With a filmography of innocence chased with a splash or two of graphic language, bloodshed or sexuality, I would assume Anderson's appropriation for the sake of a new setting was purely affectionate. It still feels pretty cheap — who knows what testy millennials and real Japanese audiences will think about this one.
So regardless of racial subtext, Isle of Dogs tries to contrast its cute band of talking mutts with the backdrop of disease, corruption and conspiracy theories. While I understand he's not adapting a children's book this time around, the effort is about half as refined in its narrative, character or dialogue as Anderson's finest even though his impressive craft strongly persists. The film is as visually delightful as any of his past work and the superlative voice cast comes standard, full of appreciated new recruits (Bryan Cranston, Greta Gerwig) and familiar timbres to Wes's catalogue (Bill Murray, Frances McDormand and many others).
His last film The Grand Budapest Hotel was a calling card to the director's qualifications and furthermore quintessential Wes Anderson in spite of landing just short of his best. Isle of Dogs is firmly amusing but, as Anderson's ninth feature, the movie does little other than dilute the breadth of his creations altogether.
Unsane briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
If women didn’t turn out in droves to support the practically all-female Annihilation, I doubt even a film that has its foot firmly in the ideological territory of the #metoo movement will get the spotlight it deserves. Whatever the box office numbers, I'm sure Steven Soderbergh — who has nearly 30 films under his belt — kept his budget exceptionally low this time around by shooting his latest film Unsane on an iPhone 7 Plus.
But apart from a format gimmick akin to 2015's Tangerine, the film features minimal Apple plugs before completely adjusting you to the granular texture and manipulated motion blur of serviceable, pocket-sized camera quality, a setup similar to what Soderbergh's generally committed to for the better part of the millennia. Unsane is fundamentally enriched by the experimental peculiarity of its visual fiber — the appropriate aesthetic is simultaneously claustrophobic and unrestrained given the portability of the video source.
Apart from his digital inclinations feeling right at home amongst clinical paranoia, Soderbergh's chilling new psychological horror-thriller is also much greater than the sum of its feminist themes. Unsane vigorously attempts to scrub clean the idea that men can get exactly what they want from women of their interest with enough effort. Hollywood has a long history of teaching men that no doesn't always mean no, that a quota of force and persistence can unlock a woman's desires. In handling a stalker premise, Unsane considers the agony of having your sanity disbelieved and your safety from sexual abuse disregarded — all that while also serving up strong words for the health insurance sector. Soderbergh excels at stabilizing pressing subtext with icy atmospherics, and I haven't even mentioned Claire Foy's remarkable star-making turn.
Just within the current decade Soderbergh's productivity has been some of the most lucrative of his career — Contagion, Haywire, Magic Mike, Side Effects and most recently Logan Lucky are all worth treasuring, and Unsane is no exception to his collection of taut mini-masterworks. Another departure from the industry always seems in the midst, but we've said it before and we'll say it again: please don't retire Steve.
If women didn’t turn out in droves to support the practically all-female Annihilation, I doubt even a film that has its foot firmly in the ideological territory of the #metoo movement will get the spotlight it deserves. Whatever the box office numbers, I'm sure Steven Soderbergh — who has nearly 30 films under his belt — kept his budget exceptionally low this time around by shooting his latest film Unsane on an iPhone 7 Plus.
But apart from a format gimmick akin to 2015's Tangerine, the film features minimal Apple plugs before completely adjusting you to the granular texture and manipulated motion blur of serviceable, pocket-sized camera quality, a setup similar to what Soderbergh's generally committed to for the better part of the millennia. Unsane is fundamentally enriched by the experimental peculiarity of its visual fiber — the appropriate aesthetic is simultaneously claustrophobic and unrestrained given the portability of the video source.
Apart from his digital inclinations feeling right at home amongst clinical paranoia, Soderbergh's chilling new psychological horror-thriller is also much greater than the sum of its feminist themes. Unsane vigorously attempts to scrub clean the idea that men can get exactly what they want from women of their interest with enough effort. Hollywood has a long history of teaching men that no doesn't always mean no, that a quota of force and persistence can unlock a woman's desires. In handling a stalker premise, Unsane considers the agony of having your sanity disbelieved and your safety from sexual abuse disregarded — all that while also serving up strong words for the health insurance sector. Soderbergh excels at stabilizing pressing subtext with icy atmospherics, and I haven't even mentioned Claire Foy's remarkable star-making turn.
Just within the current decade Soderbergh's productivity has been some of the most lucrative of his career — Contagion, Haywire, Magic Mike, Side Effects and most recently Logan Lucky are all worth treasuring, and Unsane is no exception to his collection of taut mini-masterworks. Another departure from the industry always seems in the midst, but we've said it before and we'll say it again: please don't retire Steve.
Tomb Raider briefing
2 (out of 4)
Attempting the strategy that worked years ago in rebranding Bond and Batman, Tomb Raider tries to give us a brisk, bustling origin story for the English ass-kicking digital sex symbol as she's known to celluloid.
Back in the early aughts there was no room to grow for Angelina Jolie, whose own goddess-like stature perfectly served her personification of the practically faultless pixelated heroine. The cartoonish antics and schlocky production of the two Lara Croft films were an appropriate complement to her overtly sexualized casting and portrayal. With this revamp, all-consuming humorlessness, hamstrung emotion and a measured mode of realism doesn't take this very straightforward Tomb Raider to any further artistic reaches than its laughably entertaining predecessors. There's no punching the shark but the writing and characterization of this by-the-books 'gritty reboot' is so one-dimensional it had me wishing the film were much, much worse.
I’ll admit Norwegian director Roar Uthaug extracts a couple moments of tension in backtracking the usually plot-armored Croft to her vulnerable, unlearned roots. The film’s second half commits to nearly constant action and some of it's actually pretty exciting, particularly an elaborate waterfall sequence.
The supporting cast is all but pointless to mention but recent Oscar-winner Alicia Vikander does her best to humanize and sentimentalize Croft while working with an absence of respectable material. However, while Jon Voight’s role as Papa Croft was reduced to memories in the original film, this version puts Dominic West's Lord Croft in a major third act role, desperately straining to squeeze something moving out of the weak father-daughter relationship. After wasting enormous effort and screen time, the film still can’t spare us flashbacks or pointless, repetitive voiceover.
Most embarrassingly of all, the last moments and vague plotting of Tomb Raider seek to set up a fresh franchise, only to stumble right out the gate in regard to box office and critical reception. Her legend will likely begin and end here and no one should be too forlorn at that fact.
Attempting the strategy that worked years ago in rebranding Bond and Batman, Tomb Raider tries to give us a brisk, bustling origin story for the English ass-kicking digital sex symbol as she's known to celluloid.
Back in the early aughts there was no room to grow for Angelina Jolie, whose own goddess-like stature perfectly served her personification of the practically faultless pixelated heroine. The cartoonish antics and schlocky production of the two Lara Croft films were an appropriate complement to her overtly sexualized casting and portrayal. With this revamp, all-consuming humorlessness, hamstrung emotion and a measured mode of realism doesn't take this very straightforward Tomb Raider to any further artistic reaches than its laughably entertaining predecessors. There's no punching the shark but the writing and characterization of this by-the-books 'gritty reboot' is so one-dimensional it had me wishing the film were much, much worse.
I’ll admit Norwegian director Roar Uthaug extracts a couple moments of tension in backtracking the usually plot-armored Croft to her vulnerable, unlearned roots. The film’s second half commits to nearly constant action and some of it's actually pretty exciting, particularly an elaborate waterfall sequence.
The supporting cast is all but pointless to mention but recent Oscar-winner Alicia Vikander does her best to humanize and sentimentalize Croft while working with an absence of respectable material. However, while Jon Voight’s role as Papa Croft was reduced to memories in the original film, this version puts Dominic West's Lord Croft in a major third act role, desperately straining to squeeze something moving out of the weak father-daughter relationship. After wasting enormous effort and screen time, the film still can’t spare us flashbacks or pointless, repetitive voiceover.
Most embarrassingly of all, the last moments and vague plotting of Tomb Raider seek to set up a fresh franchise, only to stumble right out the gate in regard to box office and critical reception. Her legend will likely begin and end here and no one should be too forlorn at that fact.
Thoroughbreds briefing
3 (out of 4)
Cory Finley cautiously thrives in his directorial debut Thoroughbreds, which debuted at last year's Sundance Film Festival and is finally a theatrical release through Focus Features. Finley's film whips up a rich genre amalgamation without ever getting overambitious, updating the satire of teenage nihilism akin to the 80s cult touchstone Heathers and succeeding as a shrewd, minimalist thriller draped in black comedy.
Anya Taylor-Joy proves again she can sustain a fresh writer-director’s ambitions and even improve the affair with her composed acting talents as she did for up-and-comer Robert Eggers in The Witch. Like Eggers, Finley hampers a few of his own merits with a needlessly salient score included only to remind you too often you’re watching something spooky — The Witch can live with it given its overwhelmingly grim aura but Finley's film could have done with a touch more irony and uncertainty. Thoroughbreds' many narrative sidesteps shouldn't be anticipated with creepy cues, rather the music should have fully embraced the film's core cavalier rebelliousness.
After reforming their childhood friendship, Amanda (Olivia Cooke aka the dying girl in 2015's Sundance darling Me and Earl) and Lily (Taylor-Joy) form an odd couple of disassociated teens, the former detached and brutally honest and the other polite and apprehensive. Desperately seeking to oust her wicked stepfather via a convoluted murder scheme, Lily hopes to exploit drug dealer Tim (Anton Yelchin in his brief, excellent final performance) to keep her and Amanda's hands clean.
Giving rise to cinematic moments of sardonic humor, compact editing and sagacious back and forth, Thoroughbreds plays just loose enough with reality to keep you on your toes and entertain with ease. The film almost feels too short but it's hardly an insult to wish Thoroughbreds went on for another 20 minutes at least. For as much as it may lean on recognizable tropes, Finley's first feature is wisely sparing and fairly unconventional.
Cory Finley cautiously thrives in his directorial debut Thoroughbreds, which debuted at last year's Sundance Film Festival and is finally a theatrical release through Focus Features. Finley's film whips up a rich genre amalgamation without ever getting overambitious, updating the satire of teenage nihilism akin to the 80s cult touchstone Heathers and succeeding as a shrewd, minimalist thriller draped in black comedy.
Anya Taylor-Joy proves again she can sustain a fresh writer-director’s ambitions and even improve the affair with her composed acting talents as she did for up-and-comer Robert Eggers in The Witch. Like Eggers, Finley hampers a few of his own merits with a needlessly salient score included only to remind you too often you’re watching something spooky — The Witch can live with it given its overwhelmingly grim aura but Finley's film could have done with a touch more irony and uncertainty. Thoroughbreds' many narrative sidesteps shouldn't be anticipated with creepy cues, rather the music should have fully embraced the film's core cavalier rebelliousness.
After reforming their childhood friendship, Amanda (Olivia Cooke aka the dying girl in 2015's Sundance darling Me and Earl) and Lily (Taylor-Joy) form an odd couple of disassociated teens, the former detached and brutally honest and the other polite and apprehensive. Desperately seeking to oust her wicked stepfather via a convoluted murder scheme, Lily hopes to exploit drug dealer Tim (Anton Yelchin in his brief, excellent final performance) to keep her and Amanda's hands clean.
Giving rise to cinematic moments of sardonic humor, compact editing and sagacious back and forth, Thoroughbreds plays just loose enough with reality to keep you on your toes and entertain with ease. The film almost feels too short but it's hardly an insult to wish Thoroughbreds went on for another 20 minutes at least. For as much as it may lean on recognizable tropes, Finley's first feature is wisely sparing and fairly unconventional.
Annihilation briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
After directing one of the sharpest science fiction films of the decade in 2015's Ex Machina — and penning the similarly poignant 28 Days Later, Sunshine and Never Let Me Go — novelist, screenwriter and writer-director Alex Garland returns with an even more visionary, disturbing and provocative film in the psychedelic, Lovecraftian thriller Annihilation, based on the first installment of Jeff VanderMeer's Southern Reach Trilogy.
Leading a cast of several robust female characters and Oscar Isaac, Natalie Portman is positively tolerable as cellular biologist Lena, the only one of five women (including Jennifer Jason Leigh, Tessa Thompson, Gina Rodriguez and Tuva Novotny) to survive an expedition into the Shimmer, a living land akin to the "Zone" in Andrei Tarkovsky's Stalker. The ever-expanding area is the result of a mysterious meteor crash from which nothing has returned, but will slowly engulf the earth if nothing is done.
Each of the main female characters is picked off one by one Willy Wonka-style, all four besides Lena succumbing to the strange wilderness some way or another. A recollected narrative by a quarantined Portman as framing device means the story is intermittently interrupted, questioned and condescendingly made clear to dummies. Great as the tale is, this leaves Annihilation with a mysterious yet deflated structure, one of few flaws in an otherwise captivating film apart from the occasional instance of ponderous dialogue or excessive exposition.
The screenplay's delicately cryptic themes pass over duality and disease before flying through the alien unknown down to the individual cell. The digital photography is also sublime and sickly to behold, principally in its wordless, visually stunning and subconsciously surreal climax. The final act of Annihilation is a gratifying payoff to the superbly mounted intensity — the film enters a continuous state of mind-bending shocks and insanity in the home stretch.
Fearlessly weird and passionately thought-provoking, Annihilation is just original and mesmerizing enough to maintain its place on the lips of critics and cultist cinephiles even if it doesn't presently connect with the public.
After directing one of the sharpest science fiction films of the decade in 2015's Ex Machina — and penning the similarly poignant 28 Days Later, Sunshine and Never Let Me Go — novelist, screenwriter and writer-director Alex Garland returns with an even more visionary, disturbing and provocative film in the psychedelic, Lovecraftian thriller Annihilation, based on the first installment of Jeff VanderMeer's Southern Reach Trilogy.
Leading a cast of several robust female characters and Oscar Isaac, Natalie Portman is positively tolerable as cellular biologist Lena, the only one of five women (including Jennifer Jason Leigh, Tessa Thompson, Gina Rodriguez and Tuva Novotny) to survive an expedition into the Shimmer, a living land akin to the "Zone" in Andrei Tarkovsky's Stalker. The ever-expanding area is the result of a mysterious meteor crash from which nothing has returned, but will slowly engulf the earth if nothing is done.
Each of the main female characters is picked off one by one Willy Wonka-style, all four besides Lena succumbing to the strange wilderness some way or another. A recollected narrative by a quarantined Portman as framing device means the story is intermittently interrupted, questioned and condescendingly made clear to dummies. Great as the tale is, this leaves Annihilation with a mysterious yet deflated structure, one of few flaws in an otherwise captivating film apart from the occasional instance of ponderous dialogue or excessive exposition.
The screenplay's delicately cryptic themes pass over duality and disease before flying through the alien unknown down to the individual cell. The digital photography is also sublime and sickly to behold, principally in its wordless, visually stunning and subconsciously surreal climax. The final act of Annihilation is a gratifying payoff to the superbly mounted intensity — the film enters a continuous state of mind-bending shocks and insanity in the home stretch.
Fearlessly weird and passionately thought-provoking, Annihilation is just original and mesmerizing enough to maintain its place on the lips of critics and cultist cinephiles even if it doesn't presently connect with the public.
Black Panther briefing
3 (out of 4)
As the streamlined sameness of Marvel movies becomes more apparent with each successive film, these slightly more daring solo stories — 2016's Doctor Strange was radical by the studio's standards — break up the humdrum even if they still follow the strict checklist for a Disney-approved distraction. So is Black Panther the greatest movie ever or just a relatively competent blockbuster? Rotten Tomatoes, as well as a staggering box office performance outpacing the original Avengers for the highest grossing MCU film, seems to place a clearly rhetorical question in a serious light for some people.
Black Panther gets several things right — it's more than a cut above your usual Marvel flick. The performances have dramatic weight — specifically Michael B. Jordan's series-best antagonist Killmonger — the humor is kept to a minimum and the worldbuilding, while flaky and far from fleshed out, is artful when in focus. Most importantly there are no inconsequential connections to the rest of the Marvel Cinematic Universe until after the credits. The action is sparse leaving space for a multitude of new heroes and conflicts — the fight sequences, though nothing more than filler, are oddly effective because the film commits to character above all else.
Should Black Panther earn bonus points for diversity though? Is it actually diversity when 90% of the cast is black? No matter how many non-whites are on-screen that alone cannot elevate Black Panther as filmmaking. As much as it is a moment of cultural significance for inclusivity on the Hollywood stage, the film will never resonate through the years as a watershed superhero film like The Dark Knight or Spider-Man 2 by being pretty good otherwise.
Black Panther is assuredly one of the best Marvel films to date and yet it's forgettable and predigested — impressive in its own context but overall nothing worth carrying on about.
As the streamlined sameness of Marvel movies becomes more apparent with each successive film, these slightly more daring solo stories — 2016's Doctor Strange was radical by the studio's standards — break up the humdrum even if they still follow the strict checklist for a Disney-approved distraction. So is Black Panther the greatest movie ever or just a relatively competent blockbuster? Rotten Tomatoes, as well as a staggering box office performance outpacing the original Avengers for the highest grossing MCU film, seems to place a clearly rhetorical question in a serious light for some people.
Black Panther gets several things right — it's more than a cut above your usual Marvel flick. The performances have dramatic weight — specifically Michael B. Jordan's series-best antagonist Killmonger — the humor is kept to a minimum and the worldbuilding, while flaky and far from fleshed out, is artful when in focus. Most importantly there are no inconsequential connections to the rest of the Marvel Cinematic Universe until after the credits. The action is sparse leaving space for a multitude of new heroes and conflicts — the fight sequences, though nothing more than filler, are oddly effective because the film commits to character above all else.
Should Black Panther earn bonus points for diversity though? Is it actually diversity when 90% of the cast is black? No matter how many non-whites are on-screen that alone cannot elevate Black Panther as filmmaking. As much as it is a moment of cultural significance for inclusivity on the Hollywood stage, the film will never resonate through the years as a watershed superhero film like The Dark Knight or Spider-Man 2 by being pretty good otherwise.
Black Panther is assuredly one of the best Marvel films to date and yet it's forgettable and predigested — impressive in its own context but overall nothing worth carrying on about.